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BABYLON 


OTHER  POEMS 


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BABYLON 


A  HISTORICAL  ROMANCE  IN  RHYME 

OF  THE  TIME  OF  NIMROD,  THE  MIGHTY 

HUNTER-KING;    THE    TOWER   OF 

BABEL  AND  THE  CONFUSION 

OF  TONGUES. 


-THE  EVERGREEN  SHORE" 

-THE  HOMESICK  PROSPECTOR" 

-THE  RIDE  OF   42" 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


By  JOSEPH  W.  DORR. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


TACOMA : 
Commercial  Printing  Co.,  Publishers, 

1897. 


MAIH  LIB. 


Copyrighted  In  1897 
by  Joseph  W.  Dorr. 
All  Rights  Reserved. 


153 
1?7J5S 


PREFACE. 


There  may  be  other  men  in  the  world  who,  on 
the  particular  subjects  touched  upon  in  the  story 
Babylon,  have  theories  as  original  as  those  of  the 
writer.  There  may  be  men,  and  women  too,  who  while 
they  have  read  the  old,  old  story  of  Adam,  of  the  del- 
uge and  of  Babel  and  the  King  of  Salem  have  been 
stirred  by  inspirations  as  unique  and  fancies  as  enter- 
taining as  those  of  sweet  Wilda  and  Gether  and  their 
Aryan  home.  However  that  may  be,  the  writer  has 
not  met  with  them  or  heard  of  them,  so  his  concep- 
tions only  owe  their  existence  to  the  Spirit  who  gave 
them  paternity.     In  short  Babylon  is  an  inspiration. 

This  book  has  not  been  written  for  the  critics,  but 
for  the  common  people,  who  are  not  so  cold  as  they, 
and  more  susceptible  of  sympathy  and  true  aflfection. 
Still  among  the  thousands  whom  I  hope  will  read  the 
story  I  should  be  sorry  if  there  should  not  be  some 
who  would  apply  their  minds  closely  enough  to  the 
fabric  of  the  work  to  discover  its  fractures  of  precon- 
ceived ideas  and  legendary  notions.  It  will  not  re- 
quire a  very  close  observer  to  discover  the  presence 
of  some  modern  words  and  terms.  The  author  has  a 
right  to  enter  the  plea  of  ignorance  to  some  extent, 
if  he  so  desired,  of  the  appellations  of  archeologists, 
for  he  is  only  a  member  of  the  ranks  of  the  common 
people,  but  he  cares  not  to  take  advantage  of  such  a 
plea  and  maintains  his  right  to  use  modern  descrip- 
tions as  he  desires.  In  short,  he  believes  that  at  the 
time  of  the  confounding  of  tongues  and  building  of 
the  tower  of  Babel  that  many    of    the    inventions  of 


504 


PREFACE. 

peace  had  reached  as  high  a  state  of  perfection  as  at 
the  present  day,  which  beliefs  must  explain  away  any 
apparent  inconsistency  in  description  of  implements 
and  other  things. 

The  author  is  aware  also  that  from  a  historic 
standpoint  the  name  Babylon,  applied  to  the  city  of 
the  tower,  can  not  be  as  correct  as  the  shorter  one, 
Babel,  but  when  the  reader  comes  to  test  the  two  ap- 
pellations by  sound  I  am  sure  he  will  be  willing  to 
allow  the  latitude,  and  I  believe  will  also  permit  in  the 
body  of  the  work  the  technical  application  of  the  name 
Nimrod  to  the  city  which  the  hunter  doubtless 
founded  on  the  ground  where  afterward  stood  the 
more  modern  city,  Babylon. 

As  to  social  conditions,  there  is  no  doubt  in  the 
author's  mind  that  those  which  led  up  to  the  deluge 
were  repeated  just  prior  to  the  confounding  of 
tongues.  Self-seeking — manifested  in  the  accumula- 
tion of  power  and  wealth  in  the  hands  of  the  few,  and 
Self-Sufficiency — made  manifest  by  a  forsaking  of 
God  as  an  individual  personal  creator  of  power  and 
iorce,  and  a  seeking  to  investigate  by  human  learning 
the  forces  or  integral  parts  of  the  source  of  all  power. 
These  elements  I  say,  I  believe,  united  to  destroy  in 
the  first  case,  and  to  disrupt,  in  the  second,  the  worldly 
social  fabric. 

As  to  the  characters  and  plot  of  the  story,  as  he 
must  in  all  other  points,  the  author  leaves  them  to  the 
kind  mercies  of  the  reader. 

There  is  no  necessity,  reader,  for  me  to  say  much 
in  this  introduction  of  the  character  or  inspiration  of 
the  other  individual  parts  of  this  company.  You  have 
them;  examine  them  with  love,  indifference  or  dis- 
like, as  you  feel  prompted.  If  you  find  anything  good 
ascribe  it  to  the  Giver  above,  who  giveth  every  good 
gift.     If  these  are  not  lovely  in  your  sight  ascribe  the 


PREFACE. 

unloveliness  to  the  failings  of  human  flesh,  of  which 
the  author  admits  his  share,  and  try  and  remember 
only  the  comely  parts  which  he  only  hopes  may  leave 
some  good  impression  somewhere. 

JOSEPH  W.  DORR. 
Ex.  XXXV.  30-35. 


DEDICATION. 


A  tree  once  grew. up  by  the  side  of  a  tall,  slender, 
monument-like  rock.  It  was  not  so  strong  as  the 
rock,  but  it  grew  and  grew  until  its  trunk  pressed  into 
the  crevasses  and  its  top  covered  and  hid  the  object 
which  was  to  be  its  adamantine  supporter.  The  tree 
would  not  have  been  called  beautiful  by  the  thought- 
less passer-by,  though  its  fluffy  top  looked  soft  and  its 
branches  warm  and  clinging,  more  like  a  vine  than  a 
tree;  and  a  sweet  scented  breath  blew  from  it  all  the 
while.  But  one  day  I  planted  at  its  feet  the  vine  of  my 
ideality  long-lifed  and  verdant.  Soon  the  rock  and  tree 
were  hid  in  the  vernal  and  clinging  folds  of  this  new 
drapery.  Upward  it  grew  until  it  mingled  in  the  dark 
tresses  of  the  love  which  it  embraced.  If  there  had 
been  anything  unlovely  before  it  was  hidden  now 
among  the  green  and  rustling  leaves  and  clinging  ten- 
drils of  my  ideality,  and  I  thought  as  I  gazed  upon  the 
beautiful  fabric  of  this  combination:  "If  the  tree  should 
decay  to  but  a  single  duct  to  carry  up  the  stream  to 
support  the  beauty  of  its  head,  by  clinging  to  it  and 
the  rock  the  vine  of  my  ideality  would  bear  it  up 
against  the  strongest  blasts;  and  if  it  died  would  hold 
its  lifeless  form  in  its  loving  embrace  so  long  as  its 
memory  could  survive."  To  the  wife  of  my  youth  I 
dedicate  this  little  book. 

JOSEPH  W.  DORR. 


CARTE  DE  GRATITUDE. 


When  the  pencil  which  wrote  most  of  this  little 
book  was  worn  down  until  it  had  to  be  discarded  for 
a  longer  one,  and  the  work  was  about  to  be  submitted 
to  the  hands  of  the  printer,  a  feeling  of  thankfulness 
came  into  the  author's  heart  for  the  many  kindnesses 
shown  him  both  in  spirit  and  deed,  since  he  com- 
menced the  work,  and  he  was  prompted  to  express  his 
gratitude  to  each  individually  in  this  little  page,  but 
when  he  came  to  recruit  their  names,  he  found  there 
were  so  many  kind  hearts  which  had  throbbed  respon- 
sively  to  his  wants  that  he  could  not  do  them  each 
justice,  so  he  will  let  these  poor  words  express  his 
gratefulness  to  you  all.  He  knows  what  you  have  said 
and  done,  for  God  has  blessed  him  with  a  good  mem- 
ory, and  he  remembers  his  friends  and  knows  no  ene- 
mies. You  know  what  kindness  you  have  shown  him. 
Please  remember  it,  and  appropriate  these  words  of 
gratitude  to  yourself  just  in  proportion  to  the  kindness 
you  have  felt  and  shown.  He  cannot  thank  you  each 
individually  on  this  page,  but  he  does  thank  the  good 
Lord  for  you  all,  and  prays  that  you  may  each  have 
the  same  feeling  of  kindness  toward  him  and  all  your 
neighbors  as  he  has  toward  you.  Believe  that  the 
heart  impels  the  inscription  of  these  words  by  the  hand 
of  THE  AUTHOR. 


BABYLON 


(Reader :    Please  read  the  Preface  before  you  begin  tbe  story). 


PART  I. 

ARYANA. 


Sweet  Wilda  waded  in  the  brook 
Down  in  a  green  and  sheltered  nook. 
With  sunbeams  catching  at  her  hair, 
She  chased  the  darting  minnows  there, 
And  thus  she  stirred  the  limpid  stream 
This  day,  a  lovely  summer  dream. 
Thus  she  beguiled  these  hours  of  May 
Wilda,  as  fair  as  any  day. 
Just  budding  in  her  early  teens, 
Over  the  pool  she  deftly  leans, 
And  sees  in  nature's  looking  glass 
This  picture  of  an  Aryan  lass; 
Eyes  of  mellow  hazel  brown, 
Looking  mid  raven  ringlets  down. 
Dimples  nestling  in  each 
Velvet  cheek  of  blushing  peach. 
Form,  than  supple  birch  more  grace. 
Wilda  saw  below  her  face. 
Pink  toes  stirred  up  the  yellow  sand. 
The  fish  escaped  a  dimpled  hand. 
So  Wilda  waded  in  the  brook. 
Nor  noticed  where  the  bushes  shook, 
Nor  noticed  she  the  soft  footfall, 
Or  heard  the  wood  bird's  gentle  call. 
But  answering  to  a  changing  mood. 


lO  BABYLON 

The  grassy  bank  beneath  the  wood 
Unto  her  whispering  seemed  to  say: 
"Come,  maiden,  come,  oh,  come  away;" 
And  then  she  heard  the  sparrow's  cry, 
Within  a  shady  copse  hard  by. 
An  answering  twitter  from  her  throat, 
Seemed  on  the  summer  air  to  float, 
And  seating  her  within  the  shade, 
She  scanned  the  road  along  the  glade. 
Scarce  had  the  maiden  seated  her; 
Again  the  bushes  gently  stir. 
A  youth  bounds  out  into  the  space. 
And  blushes  paint  fair  Wilda's  face; 
A  boy  as  graceful  as  the  pine, 
Replete  with  beauty  masculine; 
With  bounding  life  in  every  move, 
A  form  and  face  which  nourish  love. 
Bold  Gether,  none  more  quick  than  he 
To  swim  the  stream  or  climb  the  tree. 
In  Wilda's  girlish  eyes  a  man. 
The  finest  in  the  caravan,  * 

Or  better  still,  a  fresh,  free  boy, 
A  sister's  pride,  a  mother's  joy. 
As  hastening  to  his  sweetheart  there. 
Surely  he  was  to  view  most  fair. 
He  threw  himself  upon  the  sward. 
Face  all  aglow,  breath  coming  hard. 
"We  missed  you,  while  we  wandered  down, 
"From  out  our  sight  and  out  our  sound." 
"The  water's  clearer  up  the  Brook," 
The  maiden  said,  with  arching  look, 
He  did  not  deign  to  note  her  vein, 
But  softly  spoke  to  her  again: 
"I  did  not  care  with  them  to  play, 
"My  Wilda.  when  you  were  away." 
"Oh,  girls  are  girls  and  boys  are  boys," 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  II 

She  said,  "and  all  arc  full  of  noise. 
"I  think  that  I  can  hear  them  now, 
"Though  they  arc  far  away  I  trow: 
"With  squeals  and  shouts  they  fill  the  air, 
"As  though  they  found  some  terror  there." 

Said  he,  "I  think  there's  nothing  more 
"Than  some  poor  crawfish  frightened  sore, 
"To  find  himself  beset  about 
"By  such  a  din  of  squeal  and  shout." 

The  maid,  as  though  to  tantalize, 

Averting  then  her  dancing  eyes. 

Said  roguishly:  "Kezia  fair 
"Would  safer  feel  if  you  were  there." 

Then  Gether  bold,  with  flushing  brow 

And  youthful  eagerness  bent  low. 

And  whispering  to  the  teasing  maid 

As  though  of  other  ears  afraid: 
"Oh,  Wilda,  why  needs  mention  her, 
"You  know  to  me  you  are  most  dear. 
"No  other  can  your  place  usurp, 
"Where  you  my  idol  are  set  up. 
"As  this  stream  runs  to  the  *Green  Sea, 
"So,  Wilda,  my  love  runs  to  thee, 
"And  to  the  spot  where  flows  my  love, 
"There,  too,  does  then  my  body  move. 
"I  know  Kezia's  fair  to  see 
"As  any  Aryan  maid  can  be, 
"But  she  is  not  my  quiet  love, 
"My  Wilda,  forest  flower  and  dove." 

Relenting  then  the  maiden  smiled. 

And  answered  him  with  accents  mild; 
"I  know  it,  but  how  knowest  thee 
"That  this  stream  runs  to  the  Green  Sea?" 
"To  yonder  hill  I  clambered  high, 


♦Ancient  name  for  the  Persian  Gulf. 


12  BABYLON 

"Saw  waters  stretching  to  the  sky, 
"And  father  says  the  road  we  take 
"Will  lead  us  by  the  Aturian  lake." 
The  maid  into  a  thoughtful  mood 
Then  glided  while  her  Gather  stood 
Waiting  to  hear  her  speak  again 
When  she  should  gather  up  her  train. 
At  last  a  question  on  her  face, 
As  though  some  mystery  to  trace, 
With  earnestness  depicted  there: 
"Why  do  we  journey  thus  so  far 
"From  Aryana's  dales  and  hills, 
"Her  pastures  kissed  by  rippling  rills? 
"Were  we  not  happy  there,"  she  asked 
"That  now  with  such  a  journey  tasked?" 
With  thoughtful  mein  he  heard  her  quest, 
With  hands  beneath  his  head  at  rest. 
Then  speaking  slow  and  pondering  well: 
"My  Wilda,  dear,  I  cannot  tell; 
"The  journey  I  so  much  enjoy 
"That  I,  like  any  other  boy, 
"Have  never  asked  the  reason  why, 
"While  changing  scenes  were  passing  by. 
"The  traveling  days  and  camping  nights 
"They  are  unto  my  liking  quite. 
"I  think  when  each  bright  day  is  o'er, 
"Still  golden  days  stretch  out  before. 
"I  know  we  go  to  Shinar  land, 
"But  why,  I  have  not  tried  to  find. 
"Come  when  the  sun  goes  down  to-night, 
"While  gathering  round  the  flickering  light, 
"And  ask  my  father  why  we  go, 
"And  he  will  tell  us  then  I  know, 
"For  at  the  close  of  every  day, 
"When  evening  meal  is  cleared  away, 
"We  children  gather  listening  round 


Wllda.  jrrown  to  womanhood,  as  fair  as  she  was  sweet  and  ?ood. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  13 

*'Our  Father,  seated  on  the  ground, 
"While  he  some  thrilling  story  tells. 
"Which  binds  us  with  enchanting  spells. 
"His  stories  are  the  best  e'er  heard; 
"We  youngsters  never  lose  a  word, 
"And  I  am  sure  if  you  were  by 
"He'd  tell  us  all  the  reason  why 
"The  Aryian  hills  we  leave  behind 
"To  journey  to  the  western  land. 
"But  listen!  here  the  others  come; 
"We  must  prepare  for  teazing.  some, 
"For  fair  Kezia  could  not  live 
"If  she  her  pleasantry  must  hive, 
"And  Mash,  that  younger  brother  mine, 
"Could  never  miss  his  chances  fine 
"To  plague,  if  blushes  he  can  raise, 
^'Or  frowns  upon  his  brother's  face." 

Wilda,  springing  to  her  feet. 

Bounded  where  the  branches  meet, 

And  as  she  glided  out  of  sight 

Waved  him  adieu  with  motion  light. 

Then  Gether  sauntered  to  the  road. 

Across  whose  path  the  brooklet  flowed, 

And  met  the  noisy  children  there, 

Who  came,  both  boys  and  maidens  fair, 

With  flowers  and  shells  and  pebbles  rare; 

Each  laden  with  a  generous  share, 

Kezia  leads  the  laughing  troop. 

Her  brow  a  wreath  of  flowers  held  up. 
"Oh,  Gether,  truant,  where  away 
"Have  you  been  hiding  all  the  day? 
"One  less  brave  than  stout  than  you 
"Would  sure  have  scared  us  through  and  through, 
"Gliding  thus  away  so  still 
"While  we  paddled  in  the  rill. 
""In  this  country  strange  and  new 


14  BABYLON 

"Something  might  have  injured  you. 
"What  were  you  seeking  for  so  long? 
"Some  bird  with  strange,  bewildering  song?' 
"Two-footed  bird,"  said  little  Mash, 
"Here  I've  found  her  pretty  sash." 

Picking  up  a  ribbon  bright 

Dropped  by  Wilda  in  her  flight. 

Then  the  laughter  rang  again, 

Giving  Gether  inward  pain. 

But  he  joined  in  hearty  zest 

In  the  laughter  with  the  rest, 

Saying  (not  with  angry  word) 
"Who  e'er  saw  four-footed  bird?" 

Fearing  search  would  find  her  out. 

Gladly  he  heard  a  calling  shout, 

And  it  pleased  him  very  well 

Then  as  rang  the  dinner  bell. 

Driving  from  all  minds  away 

Thoughts  of  truants  for  the  day. 

Then  away  the  children  ran, 

Hastening  to  the  caravan, 

Leaving  Gether  by  himself. 

But  for  Kezia,  pretty  elf. 

Who  more  slowly  walking  here. 

As  they  to  the  tents  drew  near. 

Wilda  met  them  as  they  went. 

On  the  ground  her  glances  bent. 

Searching  for  her  truant  sash 

Now  possessed  by  little  Mash. 
"Come,"  Kezia  said,  "and  dine, 
"We  know  who  has  your  ribbon  fine; 
"A  bird  will  sometimes  lose  a  quill 
"Flying  to  the  forest  still." 

And  so  the  trio  joined  the  feast, 

Laughing  and  talking  with  the  rest. 

All  soon  forgot  the  morning's  fun: 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  15 

The  day  moved  toward  the  setting  sun, 

And  evening  drew  along  apace. 

And  found  the  children  in  their  place, 

All  seated  round  old  Aram's  chair, 

Eager  to  each  the  story  hear. 

They  listen  while  their  bosoms  heave 

To  hear  the  story  he  should  weave, 

Of  how  this  distant  march  began. 

And  what  caused  men  this  move  to  plan. 
"I  fear  I  cannot  do  it  well 
"But  for  our  Wilda  I  will  tell 
**As  best  I  can  the  story  long, 
"Which  reaches  back  to  ages  gone. 
"So  long  a  time  the  tale  will  take, 
"I  fear  you  will  not  stay  awake. 


PART  11. 
ARAM'S  STORY. 

"In  *Audyana,  when  the  world  was  new, 
"When  men  were  mighty  and  the  women  true, 
"Where  everything  was  rich  and  fresh  and  fair, 
"And  nature  all  adorned  with  beauty  rare, 
"Where  nothing  was  offensive  or  defiled, 
"In  purity  both  man  and  nature  smiled, 
"The  birds  sang  sweet,  the  flowers  bloomed  bright, 
"Nor  hurt  by  heat  of  day  nor  cold  of  night; 
"Where  fruity  odor  floated  on  each  breeze, 
"And  nuts  bore  down  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
"And  melons  grew  and  corn  and  vine, 
"And  roots  e'er  rich  and  tubers  fine, 
"And  milk  and  honey  in  abundance  flowed, 
"And  waving  wheat  by  the  Creator  sowed. 


♦The  garden. 


l6  BABYLON 

"Men  were  so  close  to  God  that  they  could  talk 
"With  him  when  he  would  take  his  evening  walk. 
"They  were  contented  then  and  all  secure, 
"Their  hearts  were    happy    and    their    thoughts  were 

pure. 
"They  had  their  wisdom  in  their  "fear"  of  God, 
"Their  knowledge  was  by  keeping  in  the  road, 
"Until  a  day  when  on  their  gaze  appeared 
"One  with  a  story  they  had  never  heard, 
"Of  how  men's  learning  would  their  lives  complete, 
"Upraise  their  minds  and  guide  their  groping  feet, 
"Would  make  them  wise  as  their  Creator  was; 
"Of  all  creations  they  should  know  the  cause, 
"And  not  as  children  follow  his  commands, 
"But  everything  control  by  their  own  minds. 
"He  said  for  disobedience  they  should  not  die, 
"But  into  gods  should  be  exalted  up  on  high. 
"The  woman  listened,  this  was  something  new, 
"So  fair  the  story  seemed  she  thought  it  true; 
"And  thus  it  was  that  on  an  awful  day 
"The  mother  of  our  race  was  led  away; 
"The  fairest  queen  of  all  humanity, 
"Forgot  her  God  and  list'd  to  sophistry, 
"The  king,  her  husband,  did  with  her  partake 
"To  his  own  woe  and  God's  commandment  break, 
"And  so  at  last  the  sad  day  came  about, 
"They  saw  their  nakedness  and  God  turned  them  out 
"To  till  the  ground  in  sorrow  and  in  pain, 
"To  feel  the  frosts  and  fight  with  driving  rain; 
"To  find  what  man  would  do  without  his  God. 
"While  death  lurked  in  the  working  weary  clod. 
"They  traveled  eastward,  lone  and  sad  the  day, 
"With  weary  feet  they  trod  the  tangled  way. 
"Scratched  by  the  thorns  and  pierced  by  thistles  keen, 
"They  sought  for  peace  and  rest  in  lands  unseen. 
"'Three  days  they  hastened  from  the  blessings  lost, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  17 

""Until  their  bodies,  sore,  demanded  rest. 

■"Mid  raging  animals  and  hissing  snakes 

"They  builded  them  a  house  of  boughs  and  brakes; 

"Their  meagre  food  they  dug  from  out  the  earth, 

"With  death  on  every  side  they  ventured  forth. 

"For  weary  months  they  toiled  nor  smiled, 

"Until  in  pain  God  sent  a  little  child, 

"Who  brought  to  Eve's  sad  face  the  light, 

"And  nerved  up  Adam's  arm  to  fight 

"Against  surrounding  ills  on  every  side, 

"Lest  death  should  enter  in  and  woes  betide. 

"And  thus  they  multiplied  and  filled  the  earth, 

"Encountering  threatening  death  at  every  birth. 

"But  sorrowing  man  could  never  quite  forget 

"The  blessed  place  they'd  lost,  and  even  yet 

"The  story's  sadly  told  among  the  race, 

"Of  Eve  and  Adam  driven  from  the  happy  place. 

"As  man  thus  started  wrong,  he  grew 

"More  wicked  as  the  cumbering  ages  flew, 

"Until  at  last,  God's  mighty  patience  tired, 

"Repented  him,  and  sore  his  anger  fired. 

"In  all  the  world,  though  searching  sadly  through, 

"He  could  not  find  a  human  being  true, 

"Save  one,  who  with  his  family  he'd  save, 

"Who  had  a  spirit  true  and  honor  brave. 

"To  him  he  told  his  awful,  fell  designs 

^'To  purge  the  earth  of  all  the  wicked  of  mankind, 

"So  Noah  built  an  ark  against  the  awful  day 

^*When  water  should  submerge  and  wash  away 

"The  wicked,  selfish,  boasting  human  race, 

"Who  blasphemed  righteousness  before  his  face. 

"The  ark  was  finished  mid  the  sneers  of  men, 

"Who  said  the  earth  should  be  as  it  had  been — 

"That  Noah  was  demented  and  befooled, 

"And  that  halucination  all  his  actions  ruled. 


l8  BABYLON 

"The  flood  came  down  and  drowned  the  very  earth, 
"But  now  in  safety  Noah  floated  forth, 
"Above  the  hills,  the  rocks,  the  highest  trees, 
"Above  the  mountains,  wafted  by  the  breeze. 
"The  ark,  with  all  its  load  of  men  and  beast, 
"Moved  slowly  oflF  toward  the  glowing  east. 
"Seven  weary  months  it  floated  back  and  forth, 
"Until  a  wind  came  blowing  from  the  north 
"And  dried  the  cumbering  waters  off  the  earth; 
"Until  the  highest  mountain  tops  came  forth. 
"Then  stopped  the  ark,  and  quiet  sat 
"Among  the  towering  peaks  of  eastern  Ararat, 
"Just  westward  from  the  ancient  land  of  Nod, 
"Where  Cain  went  from  the  presence  of  his  God. 
"An  altar  and  burned  sacrifice  were  made, 
"And  Noah  unto  God  his  homage  paid. 
"With  bending  knee,  and  gazing  up  on  high, 
"He  saw  the  painted  bow  across  the  sky, 
"And  heard,  delighted,  (that  which  gave  Hope  birth) 
"God's  promise,  never  more  to  drown  the  earth. 

"  'Twas  springtime,  and  the  liirds  and  flowers 
"Soon  decked  the  valleys  down  below  in  bowers, 
"But  snows  were  falling  on  the  mountain  peak, 
"So  man  commenced  the  lower  plains  to  seek. 
"The  ark  remained,  and  there  remains  to-day, 
"Safely  preserved  and  buried  in  the  snow  away, 
"Till  age  on  age  have  gone  into  the  past, 
"And  God  reveals  its  hiding  place  at  last. 
"Our  people  used  to  climb,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
"Up  to  the  ark's  drear  tomb  amid  eternal  snow, 
"And  walk  above  its  roof,  so  many  cubits  down, 
"While  snowy  mountains  stood  with  icy  frown, 
"Threatening  with  death  the  curious  climber  bold, 
"Who  dared  to  face  their  howling  blasts  of  cold, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I9 

"To  propagate  rem'niscent  feeling  there, 
"Among  the  frosty  drifts  and  glacier  glare. 

"As  time  passed  on  the  memory  grew  dark, 
"With  nothing  to  be  seen  but  outline  of  the  ark, 
"With  snowy  blankets  clinging  close  about 
"Its  massive  form  from  gopher  fashioned  out, 
"And  that  was  all;  its  chambers  ever  hid 
"By  drifts  which  bravest  burrower  defied, 
"But  still  the  shrouded  shape  is  ever  there, 
"Protected  from  the  inroads  of  decay  and  wear. 

"Well,  time  wore  on,  and  Jafeth  traveled  east, 
"While  Ham,  his  brother  sought  the  garden  west. 
"My  father  stayed  and  reared  his  simple  home, 
"And  tilled  his  fields  anear  the  snowy  dome 
"Where  rested,  when  the  mighty  flood  was  past, 
"The  ark  which  bore  them  safely  to  its  rest. 
"And  Noah  stayed  and  made  his  home  close  by; 
"He  loved  the  green  hillsides  and  glowing  sky. 
"As  year  by  year  went  by  and  generations  came 
"Grandfather  thought  it  meet  to  give  the  land  a  name. 
"The  valley,  rich  among  the  hills  so  grand, 
"With  air  ethereal  was  a  pleasant  land. 
"He  thought  upon  the  scenes  and  beauties  there, 
"The  echoing  hills  and  crystal  streams  so  fair; 
"Upon  the  towering  snow-clad  sentinel, 
"And  then  upon  the  air  ethereal, 
"Breathing  which  thrilled  the  dancing  blood 
"And  filled  the  throbbing  valves  with  fluid  good, 
"Then  looking  up  toward  heaven  far  above, 
"And  thinking  reverently  of  God's  wondrous  love, 
"He  named  the  new  land  'Aryana,'  home  of  pure  air; 
"And  built  among  the  hills  a  city  fair: 
"  'Bactriana,'  which  the  world  knew  well 
"As  Noah's  home  and  Aryana's  capital. 


20  BABYLON 

"The  people  grew  and  overspread  the  earth, 

"And  never  had  of  fruits  and  grain  a  derth. 

"Their  cattle  covered  over  all  the  hills, 

"The  valleys  echoed  with  their  rumbling  mills, 

"And  all  were  happy  and  serene  content, 

"When  on  a  day  not  to  be  soon  forgot, 

"From  Bactriana  wondrous  news  was  brought: 

"They'd  found  the  place  where  beauteous  Eden  was, 

"In  Shinar,  west  of  Audyana,  near  to  Uz, 

"My  brother,  who  was  now  a  father  of  a  land, 

"Named  for  him,  a  country  fair  and  grand. 

"Noah  had  gone;  my  brother  Asshur,  too, 

"And  so  we  thought  no  doubt  the  story  true. 

"A  king  was  there  most  wondrous  in  the  chase 

''Bold  Nimrod,  who  before  God's  face 

■"A  mighty  hunter  was,  and  king  of  power, 

^'Ruler  of  the  land  and  hero  of  the  hour. 

"Then  all  the  people  talked  the  matter  o'er, 

^'And  as  time  passed  the  interest  grew  more. 

■"On  every  hand  the  people  talked  of  naught  at  all 

■"But  Eden's  beauties  and  of  man's  sad  fall, 

■"Of  this  rich  land  of  Shinar  in  the  west, 

"Where  grains  and  fruits  all  grew  the  very  best; 

"And  as  the  elders  talked,  the  youngsters,  too, 

^'Grew  warm  in  wonder  at  the  story  new, 

■"And  so  at  last  a  company  was  formed 

^*Of  those  whose  hearts  with  rapture  warmed 

■"At  memory  of  the  old,  old  story  grand, 

■"Of  Eden  fair,  and  of  the  birth  of  man. 

"The  new  land,  so  the  pretty  story  told, 

''Was  rich  as  Eden  was  in  days  of  old, 

"With  forests  sprinkled  o'er  the  verdant  hills, 

"With  rivers  grand  and  many  twittering  rills. 

"And  so  you  all  remember  how  the  start  began, 

"This  journey  to  the  western  wonder  land. 

"That  we  shall  strangers  be  we  need  not  fear 


^ 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  21 

"For  good  old  Noah  lives,  with  brother  Asshur  there 
"And  Ham,  my  dark  skinned  uncle,  who  so  long  ago 
"Moved  toward  the  setting  sun,  as  you  all  know, 
"Dwells  by  the  river  there,  and  his  brave  Son 
"Upon  the  river  banks  a  city  has  begun. 
"We've  traveled  twenty  days  from  our  old  home, 
"And  there  are  fifteen  days  of  journey  yet  to  come 
"Before  we  reach  the  sweet,  enchanted  place 
"Which  saw  the  birthday  of  the  human  race. 
"We  rest  a  day  by  this  clear  crystal  brook 
"To  oil  our  wagons  and  revive  our  stock, 
"Then  on  our  journey  we  again  will  be 
"Along  the  roadway  by  the  green  Green  Sea. 
"You  children  shall  enjoy  the  passing  hours 
"With  changing  scenes  and  with  birds  and  flowers. 
"But  while  we  have  thus  at  our  story  been 
"The  clock  in  yonder  van  is  striking  ten; 
"And  now  I've  all  the  simple  story  told 
"Of  why  we  journey  to  this  country  old, 
"So  now  to  bed  to  rest  you  from  your  play, 
"And  thus  prepare  you  for  another  day 
"Now,  Wilda,  Gether,  my  brave  young  man, 
"Will  see  you  safely  to  your  father's  van." 
"Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  the  gentle  maid  replied, 
"I  have  your  story,  oh,  so  much  enjoyed." 

Good  nights  were  said,  and  soon  the  camp  grew  still 

With  all  asleep  except  the  rippling  rill. 

Or  the  Green  Sea,  which  all  the  passing  night 

Sang  lullabys  until  the  morning  light. 


22  BABYLON 

PART    III. 

NIMROD. 

He  stood  upon  the  river  bank, 

A  mighty  man  was  he, 
With  curling  locks  and  flashing  eye 

And  form  e'er  grand  to  see. 

Around  him  stood  admiring  crowds, 

Eager  to  do  his  will 
In  toil,  or  chase,  or  service  mean. 

Or  gaze  and  gaze  their  fill. 

His  jetty  skin  flashed  in  the  sun. 

He  stood  a  giant  tall, 
In  meditation  by  the  stream, 

The  people  silent  all. 

They  listened  speechless  by  his  side 
To  hear  what  he  .should  say, 

Eager  to  hear  his  least  request, 
And  anxious  to  obey. 

All  day  the  chase  had  been  pursued, 
Through  swamp  and  forest  wide. 

And  now  at  evening  time  they  rest 
Upon  the  river  side. 

The  game  piled  on  the  grassy  bank. 
Showed  skill  upon  the  chase, 

And  satisfaction  sharing  with 
Fatigue  on  every  face. 

And  thus  they  rested  while  their  chief 
Stood  there  in  revery, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  23 

Nor  moved  a  form  while  ears  alert 
An  anxious  every  eye. 

But  lying  on  the  grass  hard  by 

Some  youths  with  boyish  joy, 
Looked  with  delight  upon  the  game, 

Fruits  of  the  busy  day. 

Their  eflFervescing  life  o'ercame 

The  universal  awe, 
And  thus  they  freely  talked  upon 

The  things  which  now  they  saw. 

And  on  the  most  exciting  scenes 

Beheld  upon  the  chase. 
And  told  of  skill  and  strength  and  luck, 

Of  swiftness  and  of  grace. 

And  even  they,  with  praises  warm 
Their  chief's  great  prowess  owned, 

In  fiery  terms  they  eulogized 
And  passed  his  name  around. 

Said  one,  "I  never  saw  a  man 

"So  wonderfully  quick, 
"And  I,  while  in  a  glade  to-day, 

"Saw  him  outrun  a  buck. 

"He  seized  by  one  sharp,  fi)ring  foot, 

"And  held  it  fast  and  sure, 
"Then  let  it  gladly  through  the  woods 

"Go  bounding  free  once  more. 

"He  would  not  kill  a  creature  thus 

"While  helpless  in  his  power; 
"He'd  rather  give  it  chance  for  life, 

"If  he  must  run  an  hour. 


24  BABYLON 

"He'd  rather  show  his  own  great  skill 

"With  his  unerring  gun, 
'Than  honor  Nature  all  alone, 

"Who  gave  him  power  to  run." 

Another  said,  "I  saw  him  leap 

"Full  thirty  feet  or  more 
"Across  a  streamlet  in  his  path, 

"As  on  his  course  he  bore. 

"He  never  for  an  instant  slacked 
"Upon  his  wondrous  speed, 

"As  like  a  bird  he  clave  the  air, 
"Nor  to  the  ground  gave  heed. 

"No  man  in  all  the  company 
"Could  keep  his  form  in  sight, 

"Though  urged  by  every  sense  of  pride 
"To  strive  with  all  his  might." 

And  thus  the  praise  was  passed  around 

By  each  admiring  youth. 
And  looking  at  their  hero 

One  could  never  doubt  their  truth. 

With  form  full  eight  feet  tall  he  stood,. 

Like  some  great  ebon  tower. 
The  muscles  of  his  arms  and  legs 

All  showing  mighty  power. 

A  face  as  powerful  as  his  form, 

Marked  with  an  intellect, 
Which,  as  his  body  grand,  could  claim 

Unanimous  respect. 

And  thus  he  stood,  while  moved  the  day 
Toward  its  twilight  grave. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  ^S 

Among  his  willing  subjects  still. 
This  king  of  Shinar  brave. 

Bold  Nimrod  had  upon  his  mind 

Some  thought  of  deep  import. 
While  silence  brooded  o'er  him  there, 

To  close  this  day  of  sport. 

His  people  listened  while  he  leaned 

Upon  his  trusty  gun, 
Which  had  that  day,  with  bullet  true, 

Stopped  many  a  red  deer's  run. 

Some  weighty  plan  must  be  in  store 

To  such  a  silence  keep; 
They  wait  expectantly  to  hear 

While  evening  shadows  creep. 

At  last  he  speaks,  his  voice  was  like 

A  lion's  evening  roar. 
They  listen  silently  to  hear 

What  Nimrod  has  in  store: 

"You'll  all  admit,"  said  he,  "my  friends, 

"That  I'm  a  mighty  king 
"Of  me  the  people  proudly  speak, 

"Of  me  the  minstrels  sing. 

"No  man  in  all  the  world  can  stand 

"In  contests  of  the  chase. 
"No  hand  can  set  my  gun  for  game, 

"None  keep  up  in  the  race 
"With  me,  (while  quick  springs  forth  the  deer 

"Upon  the  vernal  sward) 
"Or  leap  the  streams  beside  me 

"Though  trying  e'er  so  hard. 


BABYLON 

"I  do  not  boast  of  things  unknown 
"When  talking  of  my  strength, 

"For  nature  does  not  give  with  power 
"Of  days  a  greater  length. 

"But  this  I  know,  my  skill  has  won 

"For  me  a  mighty  name, 
"And  I  should  hope  that  something  may 

"Perpetuate  the  same. 

"These  things  are  well  enough  indeed 
"For  youth's  swift  passing  days, 

"But  I've  a  wish  some  mark  to  make 
"My  name  to  live  always." 

The  people  shouted,  then,  with  pride, 

"Long  live  our  mighty  king! 
"Down  through  the  ages  yet  to  come 

"Loud  may  his  praises  ring." 

A  smile  of  pleasure  floated  o'er 

Bold  Nimrod's  ebon  face 
To  hear  what  he  had  heard  before 

The  plaudits  of  his  race. 

"I  thank  you  well  my  followers," 

Said  he  with  look  of  pride 
"I  feel  that  I  can  move  the  world 

"When  you  stand  by  my  side. 

"Now  let  the  camp  be  set  upon 

"The  bank  hard  by  us  here, 
"Where  tumbles  down  from  yonder  hill 

"The  streamlet  cold  and  clear. 

"And  when  the  evening's  meal  is  done 
"You'll  gather  at  my  tent, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"And  listen  while  I  tell  to  you 
"Indeed  my  heart's  intent." 

The  funeral  of  the  day  came  on, 

Dressed  in  its  roseate  train, 
Which  'fleeted  in  the  river's  face 

And  over  wood  and  plain. 

And  soon  'twas  buried  dark  away 

Within  the  fields  of  night, 
With  naught  to  cheer  the  hunter's  camp 

But  flickering  gleams  of  light. 
Or  some  sweet  note  from  Jubal's  flute, 

Which  looed  from  singer's  tent, 
While  those  who  cooked  the  evening's  meal 

Were  at  their  employ  bent. 

Soon  sounds  the  call  from  Nimrod's  door. 

His  followers  gather  there. 
That  they  may  listen  at  his  feet. 

His  great  designs  to  hear. 

"My  purpose,"  said  the  mighty  one, 

"In  choosing  here  my  camp, 
"Was  not  to  'scape  the  drouth  of  plain, 

"Or  marsh  or  river  damp, 
"But  here,  beside  this  river  grand, 

"Upon  this  grassy  knoll, 
"I  hope  with  brick  and  stone  to  build 

"A  mighty  capital. 

"Erich  and  Accad,  places  fair, 

"Adorn  the  Shinar  plains, 
"And  Calneh,  by  the  river  brink, 

"A  queen  of  cities  reigns, 
"But  I  would  here  a  city  build 


28  KAHYLON 

"  Of  wide  and  worthy  fame. 
"Which  should,  a  monument  for  aye, 
"Perpetuate  my  name." 

"  'Tis  well,  'tis  well,"  the  people  shout, 

"We'll  build  it  wide  and  high. 
"The  grandest  city  in  the  world. 

"E'er  seen  by  mortal  eye, 
"And  for  our  king  we'll  name  it.  too, 

"And  worthy  shall  it  be, 
"A  monument  to  stand  for  aye 

"For  such  an  one  as  he. 

"While  other  cities  may  be  fair. 

"And  great,  and  good  and  grand, 
"Nimrod  shall  be  the  king  of  all. 

"The  greatest  in  the  land. 

And  the  Euphrates  glided  by 
To  meet  the  green  Green  Sea. 

While  Nimrod's  camp  slept  on  its  banks. 
The  moon  rose  silently. 

A  dark  and  towering  form  stole  forth 

To  walk  upon  the  sand. 
And  pacing  up  and  down  the  shore. 

His  works  for  future  planned. 

Soliloquizing  as  he  walked. 

The  form  passed  to  and  fro. 
And  let  us  come  and  walk  with  him, 

And  listen  while  we  go. 

"This  is  the  place  where  Eden  was," 

He  muttered  on  the  night, 
"This  is  where  once  the  tree  of  life 

"Flourished  in  God's  own  sight. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  29 

•"  'Tis  fitting  that  a  monument 

"To  one  so  blessed  as  I, 
"In  this  the  birthplace  of  mankind, 

"Should  be  raised  up  on  high. 

"Here  Adam  walked,  a  perfect  man, 

"Amid  bright  nature  new, 
"Here,  in  this  very  spot  he  slept 

"When  God  made  woman  too. 

"Here  Cush,  my  father,  pitched  his  tent, 

"And  Ham,  his  father  lived, 
■"When  out  from  Aryana  they 

"With  all  their  chattels  moved.  < 

"A  monument  to  me  would  be 

"A  monument  to  them, 
"And  thus  a  treble  purpose  serve, 

"This  city  to  my  name. 

"This  place  reserved  three  hundred  years 

"In  virgin  beauty  rare, 
"Shall  have  a  name  which  shall  endure 

"Wherever  mortals  are." 

And  so  bold  Nimrod  paced  the  earth 

While  sound  his  followers  slept. 
And  they  ne'er  dreamed  while  slumbering 

Their  king  the  night  watch  kept. 

When  morn  chased  back  with  smiling  brow 

The  shadows  of  the  night. 
The  hunters  back  to  Calneh  marched 

Filled  with  their  project  quite. 

And  thus  it  was,  while  time  went  by 
That  Nimrod's  walls  were  raised, 


30  BABYLON 

And  on  her  palaces  and  streets 
The  world  with  rapture  gazed. 

And  Shem  from  Ayriana  came 

And  Noah,  too.  was  there, 
To  walk  the  fields  of  Eden  o'er 

And  see  the  city  fair. 

And  Tera,  with  his  handsome  son, 

Whose  name  was  Abraham, 
When  he  became  the  father 

Of  the  race  which  bore  the  Lamb. 

The  world  ne'er  heard  such  mighty  names 
As  graced  bold  Nimrod's  court. 

And  waited  for  his  look  and  call 
To  come  to  his  support. 

And  there  was  Nimrod  city  built 

Upon  Euphrates'  banks, 
And  people  from  the  Aryan  world 

Came  there  to  swell  its  ranks. 

And  man  grew  wise  in  his  own  eyes 
And  thought  to  make  God's  secrets  his; 

He  thought  the  means  he  could  devise 
And  by  his  wits  accomplish  this. 


PART  IV. 
THE  SPIRITS  OF  SHINAR. 

The  spirits  of  Shinar  were  mighty  and  ruled 
Mankind  with  o'erweening  presumption  and  gold, 
Those  spirits,  were,  too,  both  repulsive  and  tyre, 
But  conceit,  in  their  own  eyes,  had  made  them  most 
fair. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  3I 

Selfishness  said,  "I  will  work  for  my  own; 
*'ril  have  gold  for  my  hire,  or  let  work  alone, 
"No  impulse  for  love  or  for  principle  moved 
"Shall  ever  among  men  stand  boldly  approved. 

"But  unless  there  is  gold  for  each  trivial  deed 
"No  ear  shall  be  touched  or  to  pleadings  give  heed, 
"But  'how  much  is  the  pay?'  shall  spring  to  the  lips, 
"As  the  chance  for  a  loving  act  silently  slips." 

Then  Learning  stood  up  with  an  arrogant  air, 
And  said,  with  a  smile,  "your  wealth  we  will  share, 
"For  myself  with  your  money  can  anything  do, 
"In  heaven  above  or  in  earth  down  below." 

So  they  wriggled  themselves  in  to  each  human  soul, 

Until  one  or  the  other  all  actions  control, 

Till  the  people  of  Shinar  no  impulses  knew. 

But  were  moulded  and  shaped  by  one  of  these  two. 

And  Pity  seemed  dead  in  the  hearts  of  all  men. 
And  Love,  with  her  tears,  long  in  silence  had  been. 
For  "the  fittest,"  who  ruled,  only  schemed  for  their 

own. 
And  the  poor  made  to  suffer  in  silence  alone. 

And  Nimrod  grew  grander,  the  pride  of  the  world. 
And  the  great  in  her  streets  in  their  vanity  whirled. 
One  half  of  the  people  in  luxury  rolled, 
While  the  others  were  grovelling  slaves  unto  gold. 

And  selfishness  ruled,  a  despot  supreme, 

In  the  hearts  of  the  great  who  had  no  other  dream 

Than  to  make  more    secure  their    wealth    and  their 

pride, 
While  the  truth   from   the   masses  they'd  constantly 

hide. 


32  BABYLON 

And  this  was  the  state  when  a  meeting  was  called 
By  Nimrod,  the  king,  and  the  city  was  filled, 
With  people  from  every  village  and  plain, 
Who  came  to  greet  Nimrod  through  sunshine  and 


A  vast  congregation  they  gathered  at  last 
In  the  great  council  hall  a  company  massed, 
Awaiting  the  coming  of  Nimrod  the  Great, 
Who  should  royally  lead  the  vast  meeting  in  state. 

His  notable  subjects  awaited  with  awe. 
Their  monarch's  appearing;  his  wish  it  was  law. 
The  last  had  scarce  settled  himself  in  his  seat. 
When  up  the  broad  stairway  came  tramping  of  feet. 

Then  Nimrod  came  in  at  the  head  of  his  train, 
A  company  worthy  his  wonderful  reign. 
The  men  were  all  giants  in  stature,  and  each 
Dressed  in  raiment  as  soft  as  the  blush  on  a  peach. 

But  were  they  all  princes,  perfect  to  a  man, 
Nimrod  was  well  worthy  to  lead  in  the  van, 
For  his  stature  was  grander  and  stronger  than  theirs, 
As  proud  through  the  throng  his  great  head  he  bears. 

Clothed  in  a  suit  of  soft,  close-fitting  gray. 
Each  subject  instinctively  cleared  him  the  way. 
As  his  muscles  stretched  tightly  the  folds  of  the  cloth. 
Over  shoulders  and  breast  and  arms  and  legs  both. 

Thus,  the  simplest  form  in  his  bright  colored  train, 
Yet  all  would  have  chosen  his  figure  to  reign. 
-So  up  the  soft  carpets  he  walked  to  the  boards. 
Which  raised,  a  full  view  of  the  people  affords. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  33 

Then  the  concourse  arose  as  if  one  mighty  form, 
And  a  shout  rent  the  air  like  a  fierce  mountain  storm. 
Hats  and  scarfs  filled  the  air  as  from  some  mighty 

loom, 
Which  was  raining  down  fabrics  all  over  the  room. 

But    the    tumult    was    hushed    when    thrice    it    had 

swelled, 
Till  the  walls  of  the  building  were  scarcely  upheld, 
Then  Nimrod  arose  from  his  throne,  and  again 
The  throng  raised  its  voice  like  the  wind  on  the  plain. 

Then  the  people  grew  eager  for  what  he  should  say. 
And  silence  fell  down  while  the  sound  floats  away. 
A  mouse  running  over  the  carpets  of  plush 
Would  have  surely  disturbed  in  the  terrible  hush. 

Not  one  but  well  knew  in  that  audience  vast 
That  something  of  import  would  come  at  the  last. 
The  king  had  not  lightly  assembled  his  court. 
But  his  word,  when  he  spoke,  should  some  vast  plan 
report. 

"I  am  told,"  said  the  king,  "that  science  has  made 
"Some  wondrous  disclosures  from  heaven,  'tis  said. 
"Our  scholars  have  learned  there  are  secrets  above, 
^'Which  humans  can  grasp  if  their  means  they  approve. 

"They  say  with  a  building  sufficiently  high 
"The  skill  of  the  scholar  can  drag  from  the  sky 
"The  secrets  which  only  Jehovah  now  knows, 
"And  plain  to  the  gaze  of  all  humans  disclose. 

"We  hope  a  great  sctructure  to  rear  to  the  cloud, 
"To  make  us  a  name  on  the  record  e'er  proud. 
"We'll  build  it  of  brick  with  walls  thick  and  high 
"And  from  it  we'll  study  the  face  of  the  sky. 


34  BABYLON 

"What  say  you    my    friends?"  said    the    great  humter 

king, 
"Shall  we  set  now  to  labor  and  do  this  great  thing? 
"  'Twill  be  a  day's  wonder  for  gods  and  for  men, 
"And  help  us  most  valuable  learning  to  win." 

A  man  of  few  words,  Nimrod  soon  took  his  seat, 
When  up  rose  each  man  in  the  room  to  his  feet; 
The    band    began    playing,  "Long,  Long,   Live    the 

King," 
And  the  music    and  cheering    made    the    old  arches 
ring. 
"We'll  build  it!  we'll  build  it!"  they  shout  with  one 

voice, 
"And  more  we  will  do  for  the  king  of  our  choice: 
"We'll  make  us  a  name  for  the  world  to  admire, 
"We'll  labor  for  Nimrod,  and  never  shall  tire." 

And  so  it  transpired  that  an  edict  went  forth 

Over  Shinar  that  month   east  and  west,   south  and 

north. 
That  the  laboring  people  from  forty  years  down 
To  thirty  should  gather  at  Nimrod  in  June, 
To  toil  for  the  state  in  building  the  tower, 
Receiving  for  wages  a  penny,  no  more. 

The  chief  ones  decided  that  clothing  and  food, 
For  laboring  people,  was  ample  and  good, 
And  if  they  received  a  few  pennies  beside, 
They  certainly  then  should  be  quite  satisfied. 

But  one  voice  in  Shinar  was  raised  for  the  poor, 
When  Asshur  would  have  of  the  follies  no  more, 
And  marched  with  his  flocks  and  his  people  as  well 
To  a  place  he  would  seek  in  the  north  land  to  dwell. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  35 

Old  Noah  bewailed  the  distress  of  the  poor, 
And  predicted  God's  curse  on  the  people  once  more. 
Our  Gether  and  Abram,  his  choice  bosom  friend, 
Oft  conversed  with  the  patriarch  learned  and  kind, 
Who  could  tell  of  the  flood  and  the  ruin  of  man. 
By  the  vain  self-assurance  to  which  he  had  run. 

And  Wilda,  Sweet  Wilda,  of  whom  we  have  heard, 
Oft  showed  her  kind  heart  both  by  act  and  by  word. 
She  sorrowful  grew,  for  it  troubled  her  sore 
To  see  the  sad  lot  of  the  suffering  poor. 

But  the  great  work  went  on  with  these  protests  so 

few 
That  the  king  in  his  glory  and  pride  never  knew. 
And  black  and  white  mingled  in  pride  to  behold 
With  great  admiration  a  project  so  bold. 

They  builded  each  balcony  higher  and  higher, 
And  up  to  the  heavens  began  to  inspire. 
Queen  Jemima  rode  gay  in  her  chariot  so  grand, 
All  round  the  great  tower,  her  chargers  in  hand. 
Her  face  than  a  lily  more  beauteously  fair, 
Her  form  covered  up  with  her  glorious  hair, 
Which  flowed  like  a  torrent  of  gold  to  her  waist, 
A  creature  exquisite  in  beauty  and  grace. 

One  day  as  she  rode  to  the  top  of  the  pile, 

Her  face  rippling  o'er  with  a  proud,  selfish  smile, 

A  laborer  chanced  from  the  top  of  the  wall, 

By  a  slip  of  the  hand  to  let  a  brick  fall, 

Which  struck  with  a  crash  in  its  lightning  descent, 

And  a  hole  in  the  top  of  the  chariot  rent. 

The  queen  in  her  anger  declared  in  a  rage 

The  culprit  must  then  be  hurled  down  from  the  stage. 

No  matter,  though  pleading  for  mercy  he'd  cry, 


36  BABYLON 

The  man  for  example  must  miserably  die. 
So  selfish  had  come  the  great  people  to  be, 
That  their  queen  with  indifference  such  misery  could 
see. 

But  the  building  went  forward,  and  with  it  the  power 
Of  learning  and  selfishness  grew  as  the  tower, 
Until,  in  their  pride,  men  declared  they  were  gods. 
Who  would  grasp  and  control  both  the  winds  and  the 
floods. 


PART  V. 

BABEL. 

God  saw  the  tower  approach  the  sky, 

And  heard  the  boasts  of  men. 
And  said  "these  vain  imaginings 
"Quite  long  enough  have  been." 

A  frown  was  clouding  o'er  his  brow, 

His  heart  with  anger  wrung; 
Til  touch,"  he  said,  "bewilderingly, 
"These  people  in  the  tongue. 

"Left  to  themselves  they'll  never  cease 
"From  nothing  be  restrained 

"Until  the  deepest  secrets 
"They  have  for  themselves  obtained. 

"They  are  mighty  here  in  Shinar, 
"And  with  e'er  increasing  power, 

"And  ambition  overweening, 

"They  have  thought  to  build  this  tower. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  37 

"My  poor  are  here  oppressed  ainid 

"This  splendor  and  this  wealth, 
"And  selfishness  has  crept  among 

"The  people  as  by  stealth. 

"Until  their  each  and  every  aim 

"Is  to  delight  the  rich, 
"While  they  oppress  my  helpless  poor 

"Down  to  the  meanest  pitch. 

"And  even  they,  while  grovelling, 

"Are  willing  if  they  can, 
"To  rise  above  their  fellows 

"By  the  favor  of  some  man; 

"And  then  join  in  the  struggle. 

"While  trampling  down  their  race, 
"For  the  honors  and  indulgings 

"Bought  with  power  and  pelf  and  place. 

"Thus  the  battle  rages  onward, 

"With  no  end  to  greed  and  guile, 
"And  their  spirits  never  upward 

"But  go  downward  all  the  while. 

"Though  their  wealth   and   learning  groweth, 

"And  their  power  extendeth  wide, 
"Folly  does  the  simplest  lessons 

"From  their  groping  senses  hide. 

"And  the  spirit  of  right  living, 

"Buried  out  of  sight  complete, 
"While  with  ever  eager  craving  ;' 

"Men  for  place  and  power  compete.  ^ 


38  BABYLON 

"From  the  fields  of  Aryana, 
"Mid  the  pastures  pure  and  green, 

"To  the  turmoil  here  in  Nimrod, 
"Seeking  prestage  man  has  been. 

"Till  he  thinks  he  now  has  found  it, 
"In  the  learning  and  the  gold 

"Of  this  city  by  the  river, 
"Ruled  by  mighty  Nimrod  bold. 

"He  forgets  how  man  was  lifted 
"From  the  dust  to  form  and  life, 

"How  when  lonely  there  in  Eden, 
"We  prepared  for  him  a  wife. 

"How  he  fell,  and  to  the  eastward 
"Was  in  sorrow  driven  forth. 

"How  he  peopled  all  the  country, 
"From  the  south  unto  the  north. 

"How  he  grew  in  power  and  numbers, 
"How  he  then  the  earth  defiled, 

"While  we  favored  him  with  chances, 
"And  both  heaven  and  nature  smiled. 

"Though  old  Noah  whispers  warnings, 
"All  among  them  here  to-day, 

"They  forget  how  we  in  anger 

"Washed  their  wicked  works  away. 

"But  they  now  in  vain  imaginings 
"Seek  to  snatch  from  us  our  power, 

"And  about  the  streets  go  boasting, 
"  While  they're  raising  up  this  tower. 

"So  we'll  scatter  them  abroad  then, 
"O'er  the  whole  earth  far  and  wide, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  39 

"Some  shall  in  the  desert  wander, 
"Some  shall  in  the  forest  hide. 

"Some  shall  seek  the  torrid  rivers, 

"Some  shall  seek  the  inland  sea, 
"And  the  islands  others  people, 

"Mid  the  waves  their  home  shall  be. 

"Some  shall  cross  the  rolling  ocean; 

"To  a  new  world  now  unknown, 
"Some  in  companies  shall  travel, 

"Others  wander  all  alone. 

"North  and  south  unrest  shall  drive  them, 
"East  and  west  their  paths  shall  wind, 

"Still  shall  be  that  awful  longing, 
"Something  better  they  may  find. 

"None  shall  find  the  rest  they  seek  for 

"Till  they  meet  the  Purchaser, 
"And  with  him  have  held  sweet  council, 

"Till  their  souls  with  love  shall  stir." 

It  was  heaven's  own  day  in  Shinar, 

And  the  sky  with  deepest  blue, 
Hung  above  sweet  eager  nature, 

Freshly  washed  in  morning  dew. 

Birds  songs  came  from  out  the  woodlands, 

And  among  the  meadows  green. 
Bobolinks  a  swinging,  singing. 

On  the  gum  weeds  might  be  seen. 

To  the  sea  the  great  Euphrates 
Glided  over  silver  sands, 


40  BABYLON 

Gave  the  thirsty  meadows  waters 
Fresh  from  God's  own  kindly  hands. 

All  the  world  seemed  glad  and  happy, 

As  beheld  the  summer  sun, 
While  fresh  nature  rose  to  greet  him, 

And  the  daily  tasks  begun. 

But  in  man's  great  mart  were  weary 
Thousands  toiling  on  the  tower 

Who  ne'er  heard  the  happy  bird  songs. 
Saw  the  sweetly  blooming  flower. 

Never  listened  to  the  gurgle 
Of  the  mossy  woodland  brook, 

Or  for  restful  recreation 
Sought  the  peaceful  sylvan  nook. 

Nimrod's  streets  grew  thronged  with  busy 
Thousands  passing  on  their  way, 

While  the  sun  moved  up  majestic 
Toward  the  pinnacle  of  day. 

Rang  the  hammer,  klinked  the  trowel. 

Creaked  the  whirling  lifting  wheels. 
Rang  the  shouts  of  many  drivers, 

Pushing  hard  the  straining  heels. 

Brick  by  brick  the  tower  is  rising 

To  the  high  pavilion  top. 
High  above  the  clouds,  low  hanging. 

Where  the  mighty  work  shall  stop. 

Round  the  balconies  ascending. 
i  Nimrod's  chariot  appears. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

He  the  mighty  work  contemplates. 
He  the  busy  turmoil  hears. 

See  the  sun  approach  the  zenith, 

Soon  from  mouth  to  mouth  will  go 
Loud  to  all  the  noonday  order. 
"To  the  dining  court  below." 

On  the  highest  peak  stands  Nimrod, 
Straight  toward  the  earth  the  sun 

Points  his  gleaming  fire-tipped  light  spears, 
And  the  half  day's  work  is  done. 

Silent  on  the  topmost  apex 
Of  the  day  the  sun  stands  still, 

For  one  awful  thrilling  moment, 
Then  strange  shouts  the  heavens  fill. 

Swelling  on  the  winding  pathways, 
Mid  the  courts  and  from  the  earth. 

To  the  very  peak,  and  Nimrod, 

One  wild  yell  comes  bursting  forth. 

Forms  are  swarming  from  the  doorways, 
Strange  wild  waving  arms  appear. 

Subtle  spells  have  filled  the  people. 
Wrap  their  giant  king  with  fear. 

Waiting  stands  the  chariot  driver. 
For  the  king  to  point  the  way. 

By  a  word,  the  course  to  follow, 
Thus  to  end  their  lofty  stay. 

Downward  winds  the  dizzy  pathway, 
Clinging  to  the  massive  sides. 


42  BABYLON 

Like  some  serpent  close  enfolding, 
As  towards  his  prey  he  glides. 

From  the  artificial  mountain 

Pour  the  busy  toilers  out, 
And  their  mingling  cries  ascending 

Reach  Nimrod,  one  mighty  shout. 

Thus  they  swarm  the  winding  driveway. 
Like  a  hive  of  maddened  bees 

Stirred  by  some  mischievous  youngster. 
Thus  in  wanton  vein  to  tease. 

Patiently  the  driver  listens 
For  the  word  to  reach  his  ear, 

For  the  word  to  turn  his  chargers, 
For  the  word  he  shall  not  hear. 

Watching  close  his  master's  visage, 
There  he  sees  an  ashen  hue 

Stealing  over  cheek  and  forehead, 
Caused  by  some  sensation  new. 

Stirs  the  king  some  fearful  feeling, 
Shakes  his  mighty  towering  form, 

Filling  full  the  faithful  driver 
With  a  nameless  new  alarm. 

Still  in  silence  Nimrod  frowning 
Sits  in  fearful  trembling  there, 

As  though  held  by  some  strange  magic 
In  some  unseen  mighty  snare. 

Then  at  last  the  king  arising, 
Madly  waves  his  hand  about, 


AND  OTHER  POEBfS.  43 

And  some  strange  articulation 
Do  his  trembling  lips  give  out. 

Turns  the  driver  all  uncertain, 

To  pursue  the  downward  way, 
Slowly  step  the  prancing  horses, 

As  though  longing  there  to  stay. 

Then  a  look  of  rage  and  terror 
Stormed  across  the  monarch's  face, 

Yelling  like  some  strange  wild  creature. 
Leaped  he  to  the  driver's  place. 

With    one  mighty  sweep  then  Nimrod 

Dashed  the  trembling  man  aside, 
Seizing  wildly  reins  and  whipstock, 

Thus  commenced  the  downward  ride. 

Looking  upward  frightened  faces 

Saw  the  dusky  monarch  come, 
Sweeping  down  the  narrow  driveway 

Like  some  maddened  creature  dumb. 

Round  the  circling  balcony  rushing 

Madly  lashed  the  steeds  the  king, 
Fleeing  from  before  his  chargers, 

See  his  subjects  hastening. 

As  he  wildly  passes  by  them. 

Hears  he  no  familiar  words, 
All  are  jabbering  some  strange  jargon, 

Like  a  flock  of  chattering  birds. 

Each  one  fleeing  from  his  neighbor. 
Each  one  of  himself  afraid. 


BABYLON 

As  he  finds  his  tongue  unruly, 
And  his  thoughts  thus  not  obeyed. 

Each  one  feels  himself  demented, 
While  he  knows  his  neighbor  mad, 

And  each  flees  from  what,  he  knows  not. 
To  escape  some  spirit  bad. 

All  forgot  the  tower  they  builded, 
While  they  hastened  wild  away, 

As  the  sun  commenced  descending 
Down  the  western  slope  of  day. 

King  and  subjects  thronged  the  highways, 
Screaming,  babbling  the  while, 

And  the  air  was  filled  with  tumult. 
Every  one  had  ceased  from  toil. 

Each  one  madly,  wildly  rushing 
North  and  south  and  east  and  west. 

Language  by  them  all  forgotten, 
They  had  learned  at  mother's  brea.st. 

None  to  converse,  none  to  counsel. 
None  to  them  a  word  could  speak, 

Though  among  the  wise  and  simple 
Throughout   Nimrod  they  should  seek. 

Thus  the  sun  went  down  on  Nimrod. 

On  a  scene  of  terror  wild, 
Calls  and  screams  and  frantic  rushing 

Were  not  by  the  midnight  stilled. 

Wild  scared  faces  ever  peering. 
Ears  that  listened  for  one  word, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  45 

Sound  artic'late  in  the  darkness, 
That  familiar  might  be  heard. 

At  the  sunrise  weak  and  weary, 

None  had  found  the  golden  key, 
Which  should  by  some  magic  turning 

Open  wide  the  mystery. 

But,  as  though  by  some  strange  instinct, 

People  gathered  two  by  two. 
Guided  by  some  gentle  spirit, 

Sent  from  somewhere,  no  one  knew. 

Pair  by  pair  the  men  and  women 
Mated,  grasped  each  other's  hand, 

As  they  seemed,  by  some  strange  instinct, 
To  each  other  understand. 

Children,  who  had  wildly  crying 

Ran  about  the  roaring  town, 
Seemed  by  instinct  drawn  to  people 

They  had  never  even  known. 

Thus  they  gathered  into  families, 

Speaking  each  in  separate  tongue. 
And  in  groups  commenced  to  wander 

From  the  city  streets  among. 

Nimrod's  queen  a  lab'rer  'compnied, 

Who  with  skin  Sematic  white, 
Seemed  her  babbling  to  interpret. 

She  his  words  divining  quite. 

Nimrod  sought  a  plebian  woman, 
With  a  skin  as  black  as  night, 


46  BABYLON 

Both  seemed  happy  and  contented, 
Fair  within  each  others  sight. 

To  the  westward  moved  the  black  man, 

Sons  of  Canaan,  to  a  land 
By  the  great  sea  there  to  linger 

Near  the  unknown  world  beyond. 

But  their  destiny  should  lead  them 
To  the  south,  where  they  should  be 

Planted  neath  the  tropic  verdure, 
Peopl'ing  Ethiopia. 

God  looked  down  from  heaven  on  Nimrod, 

While  its  people  marched  away, 
Said,  we'll  call  this  city  'Babel,' 
"From  this  strange  and  awful  day." 

So  it  was  the  people  scattered, 
With  their  flocks  and  herds  apart, 

For  to  build  the  tower  of  Babel 
Never  more  had  they  the  heart. 

God  had  there  their  tongues  confounded. 
And  from  there  would  scatter  them, 

Over  all  the  earth  to  wander. 
Until  peopled  it  became. 


PART  VI. 

MELGHIZEDEK. 

Sweet  Wilda,  by  the  cottage  door. 
Beheld  the  sun  in  heaven  soar. 
Until  it  stood  straight  over  head. 
And  all  the  morning  hours  had  fled. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  47 

Her  father  by  her  on  the  stoop, 

Toward  the  glowing  sun  glanced  up, 
"Well,  half  the  day  is  gone,"  said  he, 
"A  day  of  import  it  will  be, 
"For  Noah  says  that  God  will  come 
"At  midday  down  the  heavens  from, 
"And  for  the  selfishness  of  man 
"Will  meet  out  punishment  again. 
"He  sees  the  folly  of  the  tower, 
"The  grandeur  of  King  Nimrod's  power. 
"With  language  one  they  scheme  and  plan 
"For  deeds  that  ne'er  belong  to  man, 
"Nor  heed  the  suffering  of  the  poor, 
"But  reach  for  wealth  and  power  the  more. 
"To-day  at  noon  they'll  finish  then 
"The  course  of  folly  they  have  run, 
"For  God  will  then  their  tongues  confound 
"And  scatter  them  the  world  around. 
"The  city's  name  no  more  will  be 
"Nimrod,  grand  and  great  to  see, 
"But  from  the  strange  confounded  speech 
"Which  God  has  given  unto  each, 
"It's  name  from  hence  will  "Babel"  be — 
"To-day  its  fall  shall  surely  see." 

Wilda,  grown  to  womanhood, 

As  fair  as  she  was  sweet  and  good, 

Looked  sadly  down  the  beauteous  street 

As  though  some  form  her  gaze  should  greet. 

She  gazed  awhile,  then  turned  and  said, 

"Oh,  father,  such  things  make  me  sad, 

"How  can  men  be  so  very  bad? 

"How  can  they  thus  in  selfishness 

"Forget  that  only  God  can  bless; 

"And  tread  the  rights  of  others  down 

"While  seeking  to  extend  their  own? 


48  BABYLON 

"And  oh,  I  fear  that  Gether,  too, 
"Has,  with  the  others,  tried  to  do 
^'Some  selfish  things  to  him  quite  new. 
"I  should  be  shocked  indeed  if  he 
"Should  mutter  some  strange  words  to  me, 
"When  next  I  meet  him  at  the  door. 
"My  heart  would  be  quite  sad  and  sore 
"If  he,  when  we  this  evening  meet, 
""With  unknown  tongue  my  welcome  greet. 

Thus  they  conversed  as  moments  flew, 

What  things  were  passing  neither  knew, 

Until  upon  the  listening  ear 

A  horrid  shrieking  sound  drew  near; 

Sounds  in  their  street  ne'er  heard  before. 

Which  brought  them  quickly  to  the  door. 

Old  Nahor  on  his  daughter  leaned. 

And  with  his  hand  his  eyes  he  screened; 

Then  both  beheld  a  fearful  sight. 

Which  to  their  minds  was  awful  quiet. 

The  king's  barouche  swept  down  the  street 

With   mighty   Nimrod   on   the   seat, 

In  some  strange  tongue  he  cursed  his  steeds. 

And  neither   man   nor  creature  heeds, 

But  standing  upright  in  his  place. 

Yelling  he  keeps  his  awful  pace. 

His  steeds  soon  bore  him  out  of  sight, 

But  Wilda  felt  an  awful  fright. 

For  from  the  city  all  about 

She  heard  one  frightened,  groaning  shout, 

Which  like  some  cry  of  agony, 

Seemed  reaching  quite  unto  the  sky. 

Then  running  to  and  fro  began; 

There  seemed  a  fear  in  every  man. 

And  ladies,  too,   with   faces   fair, 

i^an  through  the  streets  with  streaming  hair, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  49 

And  searched  about  with  weary  feet, 
For  some   one   who  would   kindly  greet 
With  words  that  they  could  understand, 
Or  kindly  take  them  by  the  hand. 
And  many  youths,  and  children,  too. 
Sought   wildly  for  some   one   they  knew, 
For  those  most  near  by  ties  of  home 
Had  now  to  each  strangers  become. 
And  homes  whose  only  tie  was  pride 
Flew  wildly  from  each  others'   side. 
'Twas  true,  and  still  they  knew  it  not, 
The  only  true  tie  to  be  got 
Was  love,  which  could  interpret  thought. 
And  only  mutual  love  could  make 
These  strange  new  sounds  a  meaning  take. 
And  so  it  was  that  husbands,  wives. 
Who  pride  had  made  to  guide  their  lives, 
Found  they  were  strangers  quite  to  each 
In  this  strange  jumbling  of  speech. 
And  thus  the  streets  were  filled  with  cries, 
With  aching  limbs  and  straining  eyes, 
For  all  rushed  wildly  to  and  fro 
To  catch  a  sound  that  they  would  know. 
The  rich,  the  poor  alike  were  there, 
Both  men  of  might  and  ladies  fair. 
There  was  in  this  no  favor  shown, 
Save  unto  those  who  love  had  known, 
And  such  each  other's  language  knew 
And  each  to  each  clung  fast  and  true. 

At  evening  Wilda  took  her  seat 
Where  she  could  look  adown  the  street, 
And  watched  with  longing  in  her  heart 
For  him  who  seemed  of  life  a  part. 
She  saw  the  sun  retire  to  rest, 
And  saw  him  kiss  the  river's  breast; 


50 


BABYLON 


And  still  no  Gether  came  to  greet 
His  waiting  love  for  converse  sweet. 
The  dusk  had  hung  the  curtains  round, 
And  tears  came  up  from  out  the  ground, 
But  still  sweet  Wilda  waited  there 
For  him  her  evening  watch  to   share. 
The  pale  moon  rose  beyond  the  tower, 
Reminding  her  how  late  the  hour. 
Her  father  had  retired  to  rest, 
With  spreading  hands   his  daughter  blessed. 
All  round  their  home  was  calm  and  still, 
Yet  from  the  streets  came  callings  shrill. 
Of  some  poor  soul  who  sought  a  mate, 
E'en  though  the  hour  was  growing  late; 
And  Wilda  waited,  hoping  yet 
That  Gether  would  not  her  forget, 
But  some  sweet  spirit  would  him  guide 
Until  he  reached  her  waiting  side, 
Despite  his  tongue,  entangled  now 
Till  he  could  not  remember  how 
To  speak  the  name  of  she  who  loved, 
Although  his  heart  had  selfish  proved. 

At  last  a  step  was  drawing  nigh. 
And  Wilda  breathed  an  anxious  sigh 
And  wondered  if  he'd  pass  her  by. 
Could  it  be  he  who's  step  she  heard — 
So  strangely  slow  it  scarcely  stirred; 
Like  some  aged  footman,  wearied  quite 
With  toiling  from  the  morn  till  night? 
But  while  she  wondering,  hoping  sat 
A  tall  form  stopped  beside  the  gate, 
And  though  he  uttered  not  a  sound. 
Sweet  Wilda  met  him  with  a  bound; 
For  oft'  she'd  played  in  field  and  wood, 
With  he  who  silent,   waiting  stood. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

In  years  gone  by  when  children,  they 

Claimed  for  their  own  each  golden  day, 

In  Aryana  far  away. 

In  he  who  sadly  waited  there 

She  saw  a  boy  with  curling  hair. 

Who  early  won  her  girlish  heart; 

Whose  presence  made  her  pulses  start 

With  keener  sympathy  to-night, 

(As  she  with  sorrow  saw  his  plight) 

Than  even  when,  as  girl  and  boy, 

They  spoke  their  vows  between  their  play. 

"Oh,  Gether,"  sadly  murmured  she; 
Some  unknown  jargon  muttered  he. 
His  tongue  refused  to  shape  her  name. 
Could  not  a  word  familiar  frame. 
She  knew  the  hand  of  God  had  hung 
An  instant  over  Gether's  tongue, 
And  changed  his  understanding  so, 
That  what  she  said  he  could, not  know. 
A  flood  of  thought  came  to  her  then, 
Of  what  their  youthful  lives  had  been. 
She  could  not  lose  her  Gether  now. 
She  must  devise  some  method  how 
She  might  her  lover  teach  to  speak, 
And  thus  this  awful  thraldom  break. 
She  would  be  patient,  kind  and  mild 
And  teach  him  like  a  little  child. 
Though  years  of  struggle  should  be  passed, 
She'd  surely  free  his  tongue  at  last; 
And  speak  such  words  his  ears  to  woo, 
That  he  should  all  her  meaning  know. 
They  sat  there  till  the  hour  had  quite 
Sank  downward  to  the  pit  of  night. 
Down  where  the  willows  dipped  their  hands, 
Above    Euphrates'   yellow    sands, 


52 


BABYLON 


The  nightingale  in  plaintive  note 
Expressed  her  sorrows  from  her  throat. 
But  Wilda's  heart  was  sadder  still, 
Than  any  night  bird's  lonely  trill. 

The  cricket  creeked  beneath  the  step, 

With  sound  above  the  river's  sweep, 

And  every  whispering,  dancing  sprite 

Was  hastening  to  the  lunch  of  night. 

The  owl  called  down  the  accents  low, 

And  Gether  slowly  rose  to  go. 

He  moved  in  a  bewildered  way. 

As  though  he  would  not  go  or  stay, 

But  Wilda  softly  took  his  hand, 

And  gently  turned  his  form  around; 

And  moving  slowly  on  before, 

She  lead  her  lover  toward  the  door. 

Like  some  half  sleeping,  weary  child, 

The  man  obeyed  her  will  so  mild. 

He  followed  on  as  in  a  dream, 

Nor  lingered,  while  she  leading  him, 

Approached  a  couch  within  a  room. 

Where  he  had  often  slept  before. 

She  kissed  him  when  she  closed  the  door, 

A  sweet  good  night,  and  blessed  him  there. 

Soon  Nahor's  cottage  home  was  still, 
Save  for  the  cricket's  lonely  trill; 
But  sleep  would  not  close  Wilda's  eyes, 
No  matter  how  the  maiden  tries. 
The  imp  of  thought  kept  crowding  in 
With  things  which  of  the  day  had  been, 
Until  the  watch  bird  of  the  barn 
Had  blown  the  bugle  of  the  morn. 
Then  fickle  sleep  with  fingers  light, 
Closed  down  her  lids  with  touches  slight; 


Kezia  leads  the  iaugrhins  troop. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  53 

And  Wilda  slept  until  the  sun, 

With  fiery  lance,  his  day  begun. 

Then  gently  stepping  to  the  floor. 

She  softly  moved  to  Gether's  door. 

Her  eager  senses  pleasures  thrill 

She  whispered,  "he  is  sleeping  still." 

Then  to  the  duties  of  the  day. 

She  hastened  lightly  on  her  way. 

The  morning  meal  she  swift  prepared, 

While  wondering  how  her  lover  fared. 

She  saw  from  Babel  passing  out. 

People  with  chattels  all  about. 

From  Babel's  tower  to  seed  the  world, 

Like  thistle  down  by  breezes  hurled. 

Then  thought  of  Gether,  where  should  he, 

With  stammering  tongue  directed  be? 

Her  father  rose  and  greeted  her. 

Then  seated  him  for  converse  near. 

She  soon  of  Gether  told  him  all; 

She  told  him  of  his  tongue's  enthrall. 

And  wondered  in  her  awful  grief. 

If  aught  there  was  for  his  relief. 

She  pondered  on  her  girlhood  days — 

Of  all  the  joys  of  childish  ways. 

And  blushed  at  thought  of  feelings  pent, 

When  he  with  other  maidens  went. 

She  wondered  if  Kezia  fair 

Than  she  could  better  break  the  snare — 

If  love,  the  key  of  words  and  hearts. 

Would  turn  if  she  should  try  her  arts. 

But  where  could  now  Kezia  be? 

Could  she  her  lover  send  to  see 

One  who  might  take  her  life  away. 

By  taking  him  who  had  full  sway 

In  her  own   heart,   forever  true. 

Which  had  no  room  for  lovers  new. 


54  BABYLON 

She  won  the  battle  with  a  sigh — 
She  would  to  find  Kczia  try. 

Her  father  called  her  to  his  side, 
And  said,  "My  dear,  let  faith  abide 
"For  we  will  find,  my  child,  a  way 
"To  loose  his  tongue  this  very  day. 
"I  know  of  one  of  Ancient  Days, 
"Who  knows  of  man  in  all  his  ways. 
"This  ancient  one,  Melchizedek, 

The  king  of  Salem  we  will  seek. 
"We  will  to  him  a  journey  take, 
"My  daughter,  dear,  for  Gether's  sake. 
"He  is  the  beauteous  King  of  Love, 
"Sufficient  now  his  power  will   prove. 
"He'll  break  the  bonds  which  bind  the  boy, 
"Who  then  will  sing  and  shout  for  joy; 
"And  you,  my  child,  shall  join  with  him, 
"And  praise  the  king  of  fair  Salem. 
"This  wondrous  king  to-day  I  hear, 
"Will  journey  through  the  land  of  Ur. 
"If  you  with  horses  ride  to-day, 
"You  will  to-morrow  cross  his  way, 
"For  he  from  Niniveth  has  come, 
"From  visiting  at  Asshur's  home. 
"You  need  but  tell  your  lover's  plight, 
"When  he  will  gladly  set  it  right. 
"And  by  the  setting  of  the  sun 
"To-morrow  will  the  deed  be  done. 
"For  he  our  brother  is,  in  love, 
"And  gladly  will  his  goodness  prove." 

By  this  the  morning  meal  was  spread, 
And  Gether  now  had  left  his  bed; 
With  dreamy  step  he   moved  about 
Till  Wilda  came  and  led  him  out. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  55 

She  seated  him  upon  a  chair.  ^ 

With  them  their  frugal  meal  to  share, 

And  beamed  with  love  while  silently 

The  youth  was  quaffing  at  his  tea. 

It  seemed  to  her  an  awful  spell, 

Which  held  her  Gether's  tongue  so  still. 

So  strange  that  not  a  loving  word 

Could  he  interpret  though  he  heard. 

The  meal,  of  course,  was  ended  soon, 

Preparing  for  their  trip  begun. 

Sweet  Wilda  dressed  her  all  in  gray, 

To  cleanly  go  the  dusty  way. 

The  carriage  driven  to  the  door. 

Found  her  in  waiting  there  before. 

Then  gently  leading  Gether  forth 

She  turned  their  prancing  chargers  forth 

Along  Euphrates  grassy  slopes, 

Toward  the  fruiting  of  her  hopes. 

Where  Gether's  tongue  again  set  free. 

And  love  implanted  like  a  tree, 

Within  his  soul  to  bloom  and  bear 

The  fruit  of  honest  love  for  her. 

He,  like  a  little  child,  obeyed, 

While  seeming  of  himself  afraid, 

So  Wilda  held  the  tightened  reins 

Against  the  horses  eager  strains, 

And  while  the  river  rolled  away, 

They  rode  in  silence  all  the  day. 

At  night  they  rested  at  an  inn, 

At  morn  another  day  begun. 

The  steeds  more  quiet  paced  along. 

And  Wilda's  heart  was  filled  with   song. 

Forgot  the  weary  arms  which  held 

The  straining  reins;   her  mind  was   filled 

With  hope  for  Gether,  love  restored, 


56  BABYLON 

As  when  a  boy  he  chased  the  bird 
Or  butterfly,  alone  for  her, 
All  done  in  young  affection  pure. 
Forgetting  greed  and  mighty  names, 
Forgot  ambition's  selfish  aims; 
With  duty  ever  in  his  eye, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  aims  on  high. 
With  love  his  constant  guiding  star 
And  Wilda  all  his  hopes  to  share. 
She  knew  before  the  moon   arose, 
They  sure  would  reach  the  town  of  Is, 
Where  on  the  morrow  Salem's  king 
Should  do  for  them  a  blessed  thing. 

They  found  the  ancient  village  quite 
Filled  with  excited  stir  that  night, 
For  each  would  do  his  humble  share. 
While   Salem's  monarch  lingered  there. 
To  them  it  was  a  wondrous  thing 
To  just  behold  the  beauteous  king. 

Sleep  was  a  bashful  maid  that  night, 
And  touched  our  Wilda  very  light, 
But  Gether  slept  the  hours  away 
Till  opened  wide  the  doors  of  day. 
Melchizedek  had  crossed  the  stream, 
While  Gether  lingered  in  a  dream. 
The  town  of  Hit  her  farewell  said, 
While  all  the  world  was  still  in  bed. 
But  Wilda  fair,  all  dressed  in  white, 
Was  kissed  by  the  departing  night. 
Before  the  sun  rebuked  the  act 
Or  on  the  earth  made  his  attack, 
While  fairer  than  the  morning,  she 
Upon  a  porch  where  she  could  see 
Watched  for  the  coming  of  the  king 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  57 

Across  the  river,  greatest  thing 

To  happen  in  the  town  of  Is. 

Again  for  many,  many  days. 

Her  hair  upon  her  shoulder  fell. 

Held  to  her  temple  by  a  shell, 

The  only  ornament  she  wore, 

It  could  not  make  her  beauty  more. 

She  trembled  while  she  thought  of  he 

That  day  her  wondering  eyes  should  see. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  reverent  awe. 

While  out  across  the  stream  she  saw 

The  royal  barge  majestic  glide, 

And   gracefully  approach   her  side. 

The   changing  blushes   paint   her   cheeks. 

As  she  her   Gether  quickly  seeks. 

She  led  him  with  a  gentle  hand. 

Upon  the  porch  with  her  to  stand. 

So  there  they  stood  that  summer  morn, 

The  day  for  Gether  love  was  born. 

And  waited  for  the  king  to  come, 

To  send  them  both  rejoicing  home. 

At  last  he  stood  upon  the  shore. 

No  fairer  person  seen  before: 

His   form   of  perfect  mold   and   grand, 

A  palm  of  peace  within   his  hand. 

His  locks  and  beard  like  raven's  wing. 

He  such  an  one  as  poets  sing. 

In   glances   keen   his   piercing  eye, 

As  blue  as  ever  Eden's  sky, 

Beheld  the  maiden   standing  there, 

Of  all   earth's  creatures  she  most   fair, 

A  look  of  love  flowed  o'er  his  face. 

As  with  a  step  of  stately  grace 

He  moved  toward  the  waiting  pair, 

Who  would  his  holy  blessing  share. 


S8  BABYLON 

"I  know,  my  daughter,  never  fear, 
"We  will  your  lover's  senses  clear, 
"His  sweetest  accents  you  shall  hear, 
"He  upward  turned  his  loving  eyes, 
"For  benedictions  from  the  skies: 
"Oh,  Father,  from  thy  place  on  high, 
"Behold  us  with  thy  loving  eye. 
"Plant  from  the  garden  up  above 
"Within  our  hearts  the  seed  of  love," 
Petitioned  there  the  beauteous  King, 
For  Gether's  sake  this  holy  thing. 
A  holy  light  o'erspread  his  face 
Which  filled  with  beauty  all  the  place. 
From    Gether's  bosom  rolled  a  sigh, 
A  tear  coursed  downward  from   his  eye; 
His   lythe  young  form   in  trembling   stood, 
His  tongue  spoke  not  the  word  he  would. 
Melchizedek  uplifted  then 
His  loving  eyes  to  heaven  again, 
And  pressed  his  hand  on  Gether's  brow, 
Who   spoke  and  shouted   glory  now. 

Sweet  Wilda  dropped  her  lover's  hand 
They  both  in  reverent  silence  stand 
Before  the  king  whose  wondrous  power 
Had  brought  to  them  this  happy  hour. 
"Oh.   Father."  murmured  Wilda  low, 
"Our  life,  our  happiness  must  come  ' 
"From  thee  alone,  while  earth's   our  home. 
"Our  tongues  alone  can  ne'er  express 
"How  wonderfully  thou  dost  bless." 

"Aright,  my  daughter;  true  art  thou, 
"To  give  to  God  the  glory  now," 
The  King  replied  with  looks  benign 
Which  o'er  his  noble  features  shine. 
"Now,  son,"  said  he,  "take  Wilda's  hand, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  59 

"And  thus  in  holy  presence  stand. 
"United  now  before  the  throne, 
"Take  Wilda  for  thy  very  own. 
"She  loves  thee  as  her  very  life, 
"Now  take  her  here  to  be  thy  wife. 
"Thy  love  which  loosed  thy  tongue  to-day 
"Will  with  thee  both  forever  stay." 

Then  lifting  heavenward  his  eyes. 

Asked  God  to  make  them  good  and  wise. 

With  hands  upon  their  bowing  heads, 

Petitioned  for  their  earthly  needs. 

And  then,  "before  the  throne,"  he  said, 
"My  children  thou  are  duly  wed." 

Then  turning  from  them  he  was  gone, 

And  left  them  standing  there  alone. 

Their  hearts  were  filled  with  tender  awe. 

As  the  retreating  form  they  saw. 

They  felt  that  they  had  surely  then 

In  presence  more  than  angels  been. 

Then  Gether,  with  his  own  right  arm, 

Gently  encircled  Wilda's  form. 
"My  Wilda,"  softly  whispered  he, 
"Words  cannot  speak  my  love  for  thee. 
"My  heart,  my  life,  all,  all  are  thine 
"And  naught  on  earth  shall  come  between. 
"Melchizedek  has  taught  me  love 
"And  I  my  life  will  spend  to  prove 
"That  God  and  thou  art  dear  to  me, 
"And  that  my  home  in  heaven  shall  be. 

A  heavenly  smile  on  Wilda's  face 

Answered  to  Gether's  fond  embrace. 

He  led  her  to  the  looking  glass. 

That  she  might  see  e'er  she  should  pass. 

And  gazing  there  in  mute  surprise, 

A  pearl  gleamed  soft  before  her  eyes: 

The  shell  which  fastened  up  her  hair, 


6o  BABYLON 

Contained  a  jewel  rich  and  rare. 
"Our  blessings  now  should  quite  suffice 
"We  have  the  pearl  of  greatest  price," 
Said  Gether,  as  with  gentle  hands 
He  softly  stroked  the  silken  strands 
Of  Wilda's  soft  and  flowing  hair, 
And  kissed  her  rosy  cheek  so  fair. 

The  journey  home,  a  heavenly  ride. 

Along  Euphrates  flowing  side, 

A  dream  of  bliss  for  groom  and  bride. 

A  father's  blessing  waited  them. 

When  up  to  Nahor's  door  they  came. 

The  skies  were  blue,  the  fields  were  green. 

When  this  young  pair  their  life  began. 

The  years  which  pass,  the  years  to  come 

Could  find  no  sweeter  happy  home 

In  Shinar's  fair  and  flowery  land. 

Than  that  controlled  by  Wilda's  hand; 

And  always  when  they  looked  upon 

Eventful  days  which  now  where  run. 

From  Aryana's  fields  so  fair 

To  mighty  deeds  in  Shinar  there. 

Where  Nimrod  builded  Babel's  walls 

Mid  selfishness  the  heart  appalls, 

Confounding  tongues  that  awful  day. 

The  people  scattered  far  away; 

No  scene  or  deed  in  retrospect 

Upon  which  mortals  could  reflect 

Was  e'er  so  wondrous  grand  and  great 

As  meeting  with  JMelchizedck. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  6c 


1776-THE   ELOPEMENT-1897 

(A  Fourth  of  July  Rhyme.) 

Once  on  a  time  (for  sure,  mere  is  no  other  way  to 

start, 
When  to  the  friends  all  gathered  round,  you  would  a 

tale  impart), 
There  was  a  handsome  dame  they  called  Britannia  at 

court. 
Her  husband — well,  if  you  don't  mind,  we'll  call  him 

John  for  short. 

These  people  had    a    daughter  fair,  they    called    her 

Columbine; 
You'd  travel  half  the  world  around  to  find  a  maid  so 

fine. 
And  still  it  was'nt  strange  at  all  that  such  a  comely 

pair 
In  lawful,  honest  wedlock  wed  should  have  a  child 

so  rare. 

Nor  was  it  strange  that  beauty  such  as  Columbina's 

was 
Should  have  a  swarm  of  lovers  all  around  her  form 

to  buzz; 
And  so  she  had,  but  told  them  all,  as  gently  as  she 

could. 
That  she  must  love  the  man  she  took  for  evil  or  for 

good. 

The  folks  looked  on  complacently,    it    pleased  their 
parent  pride 
To  see  the  gallant  lovers  press  about  their  daughter's 
side. 


62  BABYLON 

But  all  this  time  the  maiden  grew,  and  soon  she  was 

of  age, 
And  sometimes  took  her  own  sweet  way  despite  her 

father's  rage. 

And  John  said  to  Britannia,  '*I  fear  the  day  will  come 
"We'll  find  it  awful  troublesome  to  keep  the  girl  at 
''home." 
And  John  was  right,  for  sure    enough,    a    lover  did 

appear, 
To  whom  their  Columbina  lent  a  very  willing  ear. 

And  then  the  wayward  maiden,  with  her  parents  had 

a  fuss, 
Because  she  got  their  tea  one  day  into  an  awful  muss. 
And  while  they  stormed  about  the  tea  and  did  the 

girl  berate. 
She  slipped  out  through  the  door  and  met  her  lover 

at  the  gate. 

His  name  was  Jonathan,  and  he  was  not  a  handsome 

lad, 
But  Columbina  loved  him  with  all  the  soul  she  had; 
And  so  one  day  she  told  them  that  she  and  Jonathan 
Would  like  to  have  their  blessings  e'er  their  wedded 

life  began. 

Then  John  he  swore  with  all    his    might,   Britannia 

she  cried. 
To  think  a  plebian  should  win  their  daughter  from 

their  side. 
And  John  roared    'No!"    That    such  a  thing  should 

never,  never  be; 
If  such  a  dolt  as  Jonathan  should  take  her,  he  would 

see! 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  63 

The  lovers  slipped  away  one  day  and  slyly  they  were 

wed, 
Though  followed  close  by  John  and  spouse  through 

forest,  field  and  mead. 
At  last  the  parents  overtook  the  newly-wedded  pair. 
Where  resting  at  a  wayside    inn    complacently  they 

were. 

Then  John  sent  word  to  Jonathan  and  Columbine  to 

come. 
For  he  and  mother  in  their    room    would  interview 

them  some. 
The    young    folks    came,    Britannia    with    tears    her 

daughter  hugged, 
But  John  grew  red  and  swelled  with  rage,  and  said 

he  would  be  "chugged." 

The    young    folks  had  been  in    the  room    a    minute, 

maybe  more, 
When  John  got  up  and  scowled  at  them  and  locked 

the  parlor  door. 
And    "now,"    said    he    to    Jonathan,  "you    stole    my 

"daughter,  sir, 
"And  I  shall    beat   you    black  and   blue  before    from 
"here  you  stir." 

John  stormed  about  the  room  and  swore,  the  women 

begged  and  wept, 
While   Jonathan,    long,    lank    and    cool    his    temper 

calmly  kept. 
And  kept  an  eye  on  John,  it  seemed,  for  when  John 

tried  a  crack 
His  son-in-law's  right  foot  slid  out  and  John  lay  on 

his  back. 

Now,  John  was  stout  and  heavy,  and  thought  that 
he  could  fix 


64  BABYLON 

If  Jonathan  he  once  could  get  his  brawny  arms  be- 
twixt, 

For  Jonathan,  while  six  feet  three,  was  slim  as  any 
rake, 

And  John  believed  a  good  stout  squeeze  his  limber 
back  would  break. 

But,  by  some  strange  fatality,  he  never  could  just  get 

Quite  close  enough  to  hug  the  lad,  before  he'd  be  up- 
set. 

And  so  it  went  a  dozen  times,  till  John  was  out  of 
wind, 

While  Jonathan  his  long  chin  stroked  and  didn't 
seem  to  mind. 

"I'm  all  knocked  up.    I  didn't  think  a  slender  Yankee 

"lad 
"With  such  a  simple  way    could    use  a    fellow  up  so 

"bad. 
"And    now,    Britannia,"  said    he,  "we'll    have    to    let 

"them  go 
"They'll  have  to  run  their  own  affairs;  I'll  never  help 

"them  to." 

Upon  their  farm  the  young  folks  settled  next  to  one 

of  John's, 
And  there  they  prospered  wonderfully,  the  story  told 

me  runs. 
Till  now  the  old  folks  think  'twould  be  a  very  proper 

thing 
For  two  such  prosperous  farmers  to  join  in  laboring 

Britannia,  still  a  handsome  dame,  and  buxom  for  her 

years, 
And  John,  a  portly  gentleman,    who    always  reason 

hears, 


And  side  by  side  may  Stars  and  Stripes  and  Union  Jack 
float  hi?h. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  65 

Believe,  for  keeping  straight  affairs,  a  union  would 

be  good, 
And    that    they  better  could  keep  peace    within    the 

neigborhood. 

So  John  and  Jonathan  now  meet  to  talk  of  business 

things; 
Britannia    visits    Columbine    and    with    her    sewing 

brings. 
The  old  folks  find  that  Jonathan  is  not  so  bad  a  chap, 
And  Columbine,  with  all  her  charms,  could  have  done 

worse,  mayhap. 

Of  course  they  have  their  differences,  may  be  upon  a 

race. 
Or  on  a  fence,    or    boundary    somewhere  about  the 

place. 
But  nothing  serious  occurs  to  mar  the  common  weal. 
And  no  new    wounds    created  which  reason    cannot 

heal. 

And  all  the  neighbors  round  about  walk  in  a  way 
correct; 

They  know  that  John  and  Jonathan  insist  upon  re- 
spect. 

They  look  with  awe  upon  their  wealth,  their  influence 
and  power, 

And  say  that  no  such  farmer  men  were  ever  seen  be- 
fore. 

So  let  us  hope  that  peace  may  last  'twixt  John  and 

Jonathan, 
Until  the   sun    and    moon  and  stars    have    all    their 

courses  run. 
And  side  by  side  may  Stars  and  Stripes  and  Union 

Jack  float  high, 
And  may  their  waving,  silken    folds    print  "Justice" 

on  the  sky. 


66  BABYLON 


TRILLIUM. 

Wakerobin,  dressed  in  white  and  green, 

Came  out  on  Easter  day, 
As  fair  a  flower  as  e'er  was  seen 

By  glade  or  woodland  way. 
Her  bonnet  white  spread  out  upon 

Her  robe  of  royal  green. 
Her  amber  throat  rich  nestling 

The  wax-like  leaves  between. 

We  gather  from  among  the  moss 

This  lovely  Easter  flower, 
Which  turns  the  brown  of  early  spring 

Into  a  fairy  bower. 
She  comes  before  the  other  blossoms 

Dare  to  face  the  blast, 
To  welcome  back  the  birds  who  sing 

While  gaily  flitting  past. 

As  spring  grows  old  and  roses  bud, 

And  summer  days  draw  nigh, 
She  dons  a  purple  bonnet, 

And  with  spring  bids  us  good  bye. 
But  wakerobin  we'll  ne'er  forget 

While  welcoming  newer  flowers. 
For  she  it  was,  midst  frosts  of  spring, 

Made  glad  this  world  of  ours. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  67 


DUTY. 

A  duty  done  is  worth  a  thousand  dreams, 
And  nothing's  mean,  no  matter  how  it  seems, 
That's  set  before  us,  and  that  we  should  do 
To  free  ourselves  and  make  the  record  true. 

The  smile  of  heaven  is  on  little  things; 
The  stories  of  our  victories  fly  on  angel's  wings. 
A  thoughtful  soul  in  some  plain  humble  home 
Makes  of  its  deeds  performed  a  mighty  sum. 

Rewards  are  not  for  what  we  dream  to  do, 

But  for  the  little  things  we  see,  and  do  them,  too. 

Time  spent  in  dreams  of  mighty  deeds 

The  Great  Re  warder  never  even  heeds. 

The  faithful  ones  are  those  who  toil  at  home, 
And  do  the  little  things  that  to  them  come; 
Nor  fear  that  others  will  not  do  their  share, 
But  feel  each  duty  as  a  favor  rare. 

He  who  shall  hear  the  words  "well  done, 
Thou  good  and  faithful  servant,"  from  the  Son, 
Will  be  the  one,  the  blessed  Jesus  says, 
Who  guards  his  steps  in  all  the  smallest  ways. 


66  BABYLON 


THE  MOTHERS'  GONUENTION. 

'Twas  the  "Mothers'  Convention,"  assembled  to  see 
What  duties  in  households  of  mothers  should  be. 
The  most  of  the  delegates  gathered,  believed 
That  many  a  mother  was  grossly  deceived 
By  the  idea  that  housekeepers'  duties  were  plain, 
And  needed  no  speeches  or  essays  to  train. 

To  "clear  up"  such  notions,  it  said  in  the  call 
This  meeting  would  gather  in  Talkaby  hall. 
So  we  find  them  assembled,  a  company  fair, 
Each  snapping  with  ideas  and  loaded  for  bear; 
For  old  fashioned  notions  of  what  mothers  were 
Must  be  scrubbed  away  and  the  sky  be  made  clear. 

To  the  chair  they  elected  a  Miss  Lemonbee. 

*I  never  had  any  children,"  said  she, 

'But  I  know  how  they  ought   to    be    managed  quite 

"well, 
'For  my  sister  has  three,"  and  forgot  quite  to  tell 
That  she  had  helped  spoil  both  the  girl  and  the  boys. 
By  denying  them  quite  all  their  young  childish  joys. 

The  mothers  then  chose  for  their  secretary 
A  widow  who  never  had  had  round  her  play 
A  mischievous  urchin  or  sly  maiden  mouse, 
To  muddy  the  carpet  or  brighten  her  house. 
She,  too,  in  her  talk,  thought  she  very  well  knew. 
In  all  household  affairs,  what  a  mother  should  do. 

The  principal  speaker,  the  mother  of  one 

Spoiled  monkey,  imagined  that  under  the  sun 

She  could  tell,  if  not  do,  with  success  what  was  right, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  69 

And  of  course    was  not    bashful    to    speak  with  her 

might, 
Of  the  theories  she  had  evolved,  while  a  nurse 
Had  the  boy  on  the  sidewalk  or  highway,  of  course. 

They    held    their    convention,    and    when    they    got 

through 
They  made  up  their  minds  what    a    wife  "shouldn't 

do;" 
And  that  was  the  principal  thing  they  required; 
Obedience  wasn't  a  thing  they  admired. 
Of  duties  the  minimum  number  they'd  know 
And  of  children  to  bother  their  lives  quite  as  few. 

And  so  when  mothers'  convention  adjourned 

The  mothers  (?)  as  *wise  as  they  went  there  returned. 

To  "appear"    on   the    platform  of   course   they    had 

learned, 
But  children  and  household  disdainfully  spurned. 
Forgetting  the  crown  of  obedience  rare 
Which  patience  shall  place  on  a  true  mother's  hair. 


•Job  xxTlit  28. 


70  BABYLON 


THE  RULE  OF  GLOTH. 

A  man  in  denims  blue  or  brown  is  just  as  much  a  man 
As  he  arrayed  in  finest  garb,  to  suit  the  tailor's  plan. 
But  walking  down  the  street  alone,  unless  perchance, 

it  be 
Just  previous  to  election  day,  his  friends  would  never 

see. 
If  he  should  to  a  meeting  go  dressed  in  his  working 

clothes, 
He'd  to  a  distant  seat  be  shown,  or  ordered  out,  who 

knows? 


A  little  child  though  fairer  far  than  any  playing  round. 
If  dressed  in  garments  cheap  and  plain  would  never 

hear  the  sound 
Of  words  of  praise,  or  feel,  perchance,  a  single  soft 

caress 
From  those  who  measure  beauty  out  and  sugar  plums 

by  dress. 


A  woman  clothed  in  calico,  though  full  of  grace  inate 
Would  freeze  from  icy  glances    of    sisters    dressed  in 

state ; 
She  easily  could  occupy  a  whole  church  pew  alone, 
For  to  the  haughty  dames  about  she'd  surely  not  be 

known. 


Now  others  over   this    might    mope    and    shed  some 

bitter  tears. 
But  I  pursue  my  quiet  way,  nor  have  poured  in  my 

ears 


AND  OTHER  POBMS.  7' 

The  sickening,  drooling  words  of  he  whose  scraping 

steps  attend, 
Like  flies  in  sugar,  wealth  and  dress,  nor  knows  the 

name  of  friend. 


TAGOMA-RAINIER. 

Taconia-Rainier,   mountain  reigner, 

That,  true,  is  what  you  are. 

The  world  admits,  when  it  beholds  you. 

One  name's  enough  for  others, 

But  for  you,  not  too  many  two. 

Sublime,  silent  and  grand  you  rear 

Your  hoary  head  above  the  bed 

Where  purest  ether's  born 

From  out  the  bowels  of  the  virgin  sea. 

Mountain  reigner,  soverign  king  are  you, 

Others  as  vassals  only  serve 

Among  your  mighty  train. 

Silent  and  rugged,  too,  are  they 

Their  only  duty  there  to  somber  stand 

And  by  comparison  your  kingly  form  accentuate, 

While  you,  crowned  by  the  frost  hosts, 

Tacoma-Rainier,  mountain  reigner  are, 

Enthroned  acknowledged  sovereign 

Over  all  your  princely  retinue. 


72  BABYLON 


A   DREAM. 

I  traveled  o'er  a  lonely  road  one  dank  November  day. 

And  as  the  night  drew  on  apace  I  hastened  on  my 
way; 

For  I  must  rest,  I  knew  not  where,  in  this  vast  wilder- 
ness. 

No  cabin  in  the  gathering  gloom  did  peering  vision 
bless. 

Now  and  again  a  glancing  shot  of  rain  upon  my 
cheek 

Warned  me  that  I  must  hasten  on,  and  needed  shelter 
seek. 

At  last,  among  the  dripping  trees,  a  cottage  I  espied; 

To  its  inviting  window  light  I  quickly  turned  aside. 

I  slept  within  this  humble  house,  and  as  I  sought  my 
bed 

I  heard  the  rain  drops  pattering  on  the  shingles  over- 
head. 

I  stretched  myself  upon  my  couch  and  soon  was  fast 

asleep, 
Oblivious  of  earthly  things  although  the  sky  should 

weep. 
And  though    on    foot   all    day    I'd  toiled    quite    hard 

enough  it  seemed, 
I  kept  right  on  with    all  ray  might    a    walking  as     I 

dreamed. 

I  stood,  I  dreamed,  upon  the  shore  by  old  Niagara, 
And  watched,  amid  the  boom  and  roar  the  foaming 

waters  play. 
With  awe  and  silence  I  beheld  the  mighty  torrent's 

rush. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  73 

The  air,  and  human  gazers  stood,  filled  with  respectful 
hush. 

And  words  were  mean  and  man  a  mite  amid  the 
whelming  sound; 

The  giant  of  the  river's  tread  shook  hard  the  fright- 
ened ground. 

While  wrapt  with  awe  and  gazing  on  the  new  and 
misty  scene, 

O'ercome  with  nature's  mighty  works,  a  curtain  fell 
between. 

And  I  awoke  and  knew  the  truth,  by  listening  aloof, 

For  now  the  rain  poured  down  in  sheets  upon  my  bed- 
room roof. 

And  this  with  wind  among  the  trees  was  my  Niagara. 

Sadly  I  turned  upon  my  couch  and  slept  till  break  of 
day. 


74  BABYLON 


TRYING  TO   FORGET. 

Oh,  those  little  feet,  how  quickly  all  about  the  place 

they'd  go, 
From  the  kitchen  to  the  chamber  and  the  cellar  down 

below; 
To  the  barn,  and  to  the  orchard,  to    the    milk  house 

and  the  spring. 
For  our  daughter,  aged    four,    must  have    a    hand  in 

everything. 

If  the  day  was  set  for  baking  she  was  surely  making 

bread, 
If  the  churning  was  made  ready,  she'd  become  a  dairy 

maid. 
If  old  Ginger  horse  was  harnessed  and  was  taken  from 

his  stall. 
It  must  surely  be  to  give  a  ride  to  Eva  and  her  doll. 

But  one  day  they  took  our  darling  to  the  city  on  the 
hill, 

Where  the  streets  are  sad  and  solemn  and  the  houses 
always  still. 

Where  the  inmates  never  answer  to  the  low  and  plead- 
ing cry 

At  the  doorway  of  their  dwellings,  where  they  ever 
silent  lie. 

They  cleared  away  the  baby's    things    while  we  were 

gone  that  day, 
To  kindly  help  us  to  forget,  in  such  a  simple  way. 
But  when  we  came  back  to  the  house  it  was  so  lone 

and  still 
That  nothing  came  into  our  thoughts  but  Eva  on  the 

hill. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  75 

Then  at  evening,  in  the  gloaming,  in  the  "now  I  lay 

me"  time, 
To  sustain  us  in  our  awful  grief  required  support  from 

Him.  » 

When  we  missed  the  little  cradle  sitting  close  beside 

our  bed, 
Which  so  long  had  pillowed    sweetly    angel  face  and 

fluffy  head. 

While  the  baking  and  the  churning  and  the  milking 

must  be  done, 
Just  the  same  as  when  our    darling  came   to    help  at 

every  one. 
The  little  loaves  were  missing,    and    the    bitter  tears 

would  drop, 
And  I  mourned,  while  milking  Mooley,  for  the  little 

waiting  cup. 

But  the  thing  which  broke  me  up   the    most,  when  I 

was  all  alone, 
And  getting  out  old  Ginger  when  a  lonely  week  had 

gone, 
Was  a  little  ragged  dolly,  down  by  the  manger  side, 
Where  our  baby  girl  had    dropped    it    when  last  she 

took  a  ride. 

Oh,  that  yellow-headed  dolly,  which  her  little  hands 

had  held, 
How  it  flowed  my  cup  of  sorrow  already  more  than 

filled. 
As  tenderly    I    gathered  up  the    soiled    and    tattered 

thing 
It  seemed  that  I  must  almost  hear  the  merry  laughter 

ring. 

But  the  weary  days  have  lengthened  into  slowly  mov- 
ing years, 


76 


BABYLON 


Hopes  for  future  joys  and  brightness  take  the  place  of 

'gretful  tears, 
And  the  summer  land  of  gladness  with  our  baby  'mid 

the  flowers 
With  its  peaceful  rippling  waters  we  believe  will  soon 

be  ours. 


A"^ 


Si  S 

S  P. 
o  s 
0  CO 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  ^^ 


THE   MOUNTAIN. 

The  mighty  mountain  of  the  Sound 
Looked  down  upon  the  forest  round. 
Solemn  and  still,  a  guard  he  stood, 
Between  Columbia's  mighty  flood 
And  Frazer's  winding,  golden  stream, 
The  farmer's  home,  the  miner's  dream. 

His  whitened  locks  blow  in  the  wind, 
And  with  the  blue  of  Heaven  blend. 
He  stands,  with  nothing  round  to  hide, 
His  tall  fir  bayonets  beside, 
And  frowning,  looks  upon  the  world. 
His  only  rival,  flags  unfurled. 
Who  with  noisy,  hoyden  day, 
Will  sport  the  fleeting  hours  away. 

He  stands  mid  mountain  troop  around. 

Upon  them  calmly  looking  down. 

Goliath  great  among  the  host, 

Supreme  he  rules,  nor  needs  to  boast, 

For  all  can  see,  with  wondering  eyes. 

The  silent  mountain  pierce  the  skies — 

Can  see  his  pale  and  silent  face, 

With  frown  look  down  from  endless  space, 

As  though  in  meditation  deep. 

Or  wrapt  in  dreams  of  daylight  sleep. 

His  form  so  great  that  he  must  know 
To  move  would  crush  the  world  below; 
For  though  austere,  and  boding  harm, 
His  heart  within  is  throbbing  warm. 


78  BABYLON 

With  silent  care  he  broodeth  o'er 
The  sleeping  world  along  the  shore; 
He  stands  above  with  brow  so  white, 
The  sentinel  of  sombre  night. 

With  busy  day  he  saw  begin 
The  toils  of  men  with  strife  and  din; 
The  cities  on  the  winding  Sound, 
Among  the  forest  scattered  round; 
With  eager  blush  the  guiling  dawn, 
The  world  from  silent  slumber  drawn. 

He  saw  the  world  with  twilight  part; 
Their  kisses  seemed  to  touch  his  heart. 
Across  his  austere  visage  came 
A  rosy  blush,  but  not  of  shame, 
For  well  he  knew  the  bitterness 
Which  made  their  loving  pleasures  less. 
The  sorrow  which  within  them  passed 
That  their  sweet  meeting  could  not  last; 
That  sombre  night  must  separate 
The  lovers  e'er  the  hour  grew  late. 

And  so  we  love  our  mountain  grand, 
The  noblest  in  all  the  land. 
Who  towers  beside  the  western  sea. 
Where  all  the  passing  world  may  see; 
Who  always  at  his  post  is  found, 
The  sentinel  of  Puget  Sound. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  79 


*BY  GMMNGE. 

Luke  X.  31. 

By  chance?    By  chance?    A  chance  for  what? 
A  chance  for  kind  and  loving  thought; 
A  chance  to  bind  our  neighbor's  bruise; 
A  chance  our  Savior's  gifts  to  use; 
A  chance  to  do,  a  chance  to  love, 
A  chance  the  Spirit's  power  to  prove. 

What  is  the  chance  which  rules  with  aught 
That  is  to  us  with  import  fraught? 
The  chance  to  give  the  cooling  cup; 
The  chance  to  lift  our  brother  up; 
The  chance  by  love  and  kindly  act 
To  prove  that  we  are  God's  in  fact. 

All  have  a  chance  to  see  the  light; 
God's  Spirit  pierces  sin's  dark  night, 
And  gives  a  chance  to  look  and  live; 
A  chance  to  trust,  a  chance  to  give; 
A  chance  to  work,  a  chance  to  grow; 
A  chance  for  glory  here  below. 

The  priest  chanced,  then,  to  pass  that  way, 

God  did  not  chance  to  test  that  day, 

But  gave  him  there  a  chance  to  do 

A  work  to  make  the  record  true, 

Which  should  be  read  "well  done,"  if  he 

Should  not  fall  short,  and  duty  see. 


♦Written  while  Rev.  T.  J.  Massey  was  preaching  a  sermon  on 
thia:text  in  Blaine,  Wash.,  March  8, 1896. 


So  BABYLON 

So  we've  a  chance,  both  great  and  small, 
A  chance  (the  greatest  gift  of  all) 
By  faith  the  sons  of  God  to  be, 
To  help  the  world  his  glory  see. 
Then  may  we  thank  him  day  by  day 
For  chances  sent  by  him  our  way; 
For  tests  to  prove  us,  though  e'er  hard. 
Which  fit  us  for  His  great  reward. 


SLEEP. 


Thou  strange  twin  sister  unto  quiet  death, 
And  just  as  fair,  but  for  disturbing  breath, 
Why  should  not  two  such  witching  creatures  rare 
A  single  personal  existence  share? 

Why  should  you  at  the  break  of  dawning  day 
Your  robe  of  sweet  oblivion  drop  away? 
Why  should  your  lovely  sister,  hovering  near, 
At  sunrise  so  mysteriously  disappear? 

Thou  canst  not  tell  us,  we  shall  never  know, 
Until  by  thee  from  mortal  realms  we  go, 
And  clearly  see  amid  the  courts  above. 
Behind  the  curtain  raised  by  hands  of  love. 


Where  the  wind  amonfl:  the  balsam  boufchs  celestial  music  makes. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  8 1 


PICTURES. 

It  is  evening  in  the  homestead,  and  the  gleams  of  twi- 
light go, 

While  the  rocking  chair  swings  slowly  in  the  firelight 
to  and  fro; 

And  I    listen,  while  I'm  dreaming,    to    the    crooning 
lullaby 
Of  a  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  in  the  forest,  and  the  camping  pioneer 
Is    walled  about    by    shadows,  dancing    silently    and 

queer. 
And  beside  the  campfire  watching,  while  the  embers 

fade  and  fall. 
Sits  a  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  on  the  desert,  and  the  famished  travelers, 
While  they  totter  'mid  the  burnings,  have  to  drink  but 

dew  of  tears. 
When  they  fall,  as  fall  the  shadows,  never  more  to  rise 

again, 
There's  the  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  on  the  ocean,  and  about  a  little  boat 
The  briny  billows  glisten  and  the  brassy  heavens  gloat. 
Thirst  and  hunger  gaunt  and  horrid,  seizing  on  their 
helpless  prey, 
Take  a  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  in  the  arctic,  and  the  earth  is  buried  deep 
In  its  shroud  of  winter  whiteness,  there  to  rest  in  icy 
sleep; 


82  BABYLON 

Hovering  like  a  marble  statue,  where  the  campfire's 
glow  has  died, 
Sits  a  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  in  the  ruins  where  relentless  fire  has 

swept, 
Where  upon    the  dreams  of    childhood    cruel    flames 

have  softly  crept; 
There    among   the    smouldering   embers    where   have 

tripped  the  busy  feet 
Lies  a  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  in  the  valley,  and  the  floods  are  out  in 

glee, 
Grasping  in  their  cold  embraces  forms  which  cannot 

up  and  flee; 
They  have  tossed  with  cruel  wanton  on  the  grasses  by 

the  shore 
A  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  is  evening  time  in  heaven,  and  the  glowing  sunlight 

streams 
Down  upon  the  walls  of  jasper,  in  its  softest  golden 

gleams, 
And  it  rests  in  glorious  halo,  just  before  the  pearly 

gate. 
On  a  mother  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  83 


MY   BROKEN   FLOWER. 

My  sweetest  flower  was  broken  when  it  came  to  me; 
My  heart  was  sore  and  sad,  I  could  not  see  why  this 

should  be. 
I  gazed  upon  its  broken  little  stalk 
And  wondered  why  'twas  so  my  hopes  to  mock, 
And  then  I  gazed  again,  and  lo!  beheld 
A  something  which  my  hungry  bosom  swelled, 
For  in  my  broken  flower  I  saw  a  smile 
Which  could  not  but  my  tearful  heart  beguile; 
Like  Lea,  "tender-eyed,"  it  looked  at  me, 
My  broken  flower. 

While  gazing  on  my  broken  little  flower 
There  came  to  me  sweet  solace  for  the  hour. 
For  in  its  smiling,  upturned  face  I  saw 
Pictures  such  as  only  angels  draw. 
In  colors,  changing  deep  and  heavenly  rare, 
Like  flowers  of  Paradise  and  soft  as  maiden's  hair. 
I  thanked  the  Gardener  who  gave  it  then; 
It  in  my  garden  grew  where  sorrow'd  been; 
And  there  with  love  my  eager  steps  I  bend 
With  quiet  peace  my  broken  flower  to  tend, 
My  broken  flower. 


BABYLON 


MY  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

I  am  sitting  here  this  golden  day, 
With  no  little  girls  around  me  at  play 

The  house  is  so  still, 

I  can  hear  the  trill 

Of  the  bobolink  below  the  hill  in  the  meadow 
far  away. 

No  curling  heads  or  bright  blue  eyes, 
Nor  little  voices  with  questions  wise 

Crowd  round  my  knee 

As  they  used  to  be 

When  I  listened  to  my  little  girls  three,  to  what 
each  should  surmise. 

No  dollies  now  or  playthings  about, 
Or  little  feet  running  in  and  out. 

Their  playhouse  is  near. 

But  with  no  girlies  here. 

Nothing  in  all  the  earth  can  cheer  like  my  little 
ones'  merry  shout. 

Oh  where,  oh  where  are  my  little  girls  gone. 
Who  used  to  run  when  my  work  was  done 

From  the  garden  gate, 

Where  they'd  been  to  wait 

For  papa,  who,  though  a  little  late,  was  never 
too  tired  for  fun? 

They  are  gone,  those  three  little  girls  of  mine, 
To  the  land  of  womanhood  lang  syne; 

And  alone,  to-day, 

How  I  miss  their  play. 

And  the  hours  forever  gone  away,  to  ne'er  re- 
turn however  I  pine. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


CHINOOK. 


'Twas  our  first  year's  abode  in  the  Evergreen  State, 
And  the  summer  to  us  seemed  to  linger  quite  late, 
But  October  had  come  with  its  clouds  and  its  rain; 
The  forest  had  carpets  of  fallen  leaves  lain; 
Jack  Frost  but  few  visits  had  made  to  the  Sound, 
'Twas  vain  that  we  looked  for  old  winter  around. 

In   November  both  summer  and  autumn  played  free, 
While  the  cattle  smiled  broadly  the  green  grass  to  see; 
Old  winter  kept  out,  and  with  trembling  shook, 
As  he  saw  the  bright  sun,  and  felt  gentle  Chinook. 

December  came  on  with  its  gay  Christmas  week, 
And  still  were  no  storms  with  frost  cold  and  bleak, 
But  the  roses  bloomed  gaily  and  smiled  at  the  sun, 
And  the  pansies  nod  chipperly  every  one. 
The  primrose  and  vinca  were  out  at  their  best, 
All  looking  quite  gay  in  their  new  autumn  dress. 

A  cloud  came  along  while  they  stood  in  a  row 
And  covered  them  up  with  a  blanket  of  snow. 
But  the  gentle  Chinook,  the  very  next  day, 
With  a  tender  reproof  pulled  the  blanket  away. 

And  so  flew  the  time,  until  glad  new  year's  day 
For  a  week  to  the  bygone  had  passed  in  its  way. 
The  wind  roared  louder  and  drifted  the  rain, 
Still  we  wondered  if  we  would  have  winter  again. 
While  the  gales  whistled  hard  from   the   south,  west 

and  east. 
The  gentle  Chinook  still  pled  softly  for  peace. 


86  BABYLON 

But  there  came  a  sad  day  when  Boreas'  young  son, 
A  dissolute  youth,  who  cared  for  but  fun, 
Ranged  around  through  the  mountain  with  wild  wan- 
ton look, 
And  in  his  brass  boldness  cared  not  for  Chinook; 
So  he  turned  loose  a  blast  lade  with  snow  and  with 

frost, 
Till  poor  little  Chinook  in  the  blizzard  was  lost; 
And  the  wild  winds  came  down  with  a  whistle  and  tear 
From  the  cold  northeast  where  the  green  glaciers  are. 

Cold  winter  was  here  and  we  sat  round  the  fire, 
Piling  pitchwood  and  fir  knots  up  higher  and  higher; 
And  wished,  if  we  ventured  the  threshold  to  pass, 
For  rain  and  not  frost,  but  for  flowers  and  grass. 

We  longed  for  the  breath  of  the  gentle  Chinook 
To  tinge  the  cold  sky  with  a  softening  look. 
A  fortnight  we  mourned  for  the  musical  breeze, 
Which  should  come  from  the  south  and  sing  in  the 
trees. 

We  waited  and  watched  till  the  time  seemed  so  long. 
We  never  should  hear  that  sweet  soul-melting  song; 
But  gentleness  won  in  the  contest  at  last. 
And  Chinook  came  along  on  a  south  wind  that  passed. 
She  spoke  to  the  earth  and  it  softened  his  heart. 
Sent  back  to  the  mountains  the  cold  with  a  start. 
The  buds  on  the  trees  swelled  with  gladness  to  see, 
And  the  flowers  guaranteed  that  she  welcomed  should 

be. 
She  brought  back  the  birds  in  the  second  month  soft, 
Whose  heart  she  had  melted  completely  and  oft. 
So  winter  was  over,  praise  God  for  the  look. 
Of  gentle,  soft-spoken,  life-giving  Chinook. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  87 


TME  GOLDEN   GATE. 

"Where  is  the  Golden  Gate,  Mamma?" 
Asked  little  Jane,  in  tones  of  awe. 
"Is  there  a  really  truly  gate, 
"Like  ours,  where  we  all  go  to  wait 
"For  Papa,  when  he's  been  at  work, 
"And  then  come  home  before  it's  dark?" 

"The  Golden  Gate,"  said  Mamma,  "is  where 
"Saint  Peter  waits  at  the  top  of  the  stair, 
"And  welcomes  in  the  true  and  good 
"(Who  have  done  on  earth  just  as  they  should) 
"To  the  glad  green  fields  of  Paradise, 
"Where  everything  is  pure  and  nice." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  the  little  one, 

"That's  away  in  Heaven  above  the  sun, 

"But  isn't  there  one  somewhere  more  near, 

"And  not  so  far  away  from  here? 

"It  seems  to  me  that  Sisiter  Kate 

"Told  the  other  day  of  a  golden  gate 

"Where  people  live  in  a  big,  big  town, 

"At  a  place  where  they  say  the  sun  goes  down. 

"And  where  there  are  ships  and  mountains,  too, 

"A  city  of  houses,  really  and  true. 

Said  Mamma,  "you  dear  old  fashioned  child," 
While  she  kissed  the  little  maid  and  smiled: 

"There  is  a  Golden  Gate,  my  dear, 

"Where  the  skies  are  soft  all  through  the  year; 

"Where  the  rivers  and  sea  played  basket  ball 

"In  the  rocks  and  sand  and  broke  the  wall. 


88  BABYLON 

"And  piled  the  rocks  and  sand  aside 

"And  were  helped  in  their  work  by  the  wind  and  tide. 

"They  made  a  gate  for  the  singing  sea 

"To  come  inside  in  gladsome  glee 

"And  play  with  the  rivers  twice  each  day 

"At  the  place  where  the  ocean  lions  stay. 

"The  Spanish  gallions  passing  by, 

"Sailed  far  away  under  southern  sky, 

"In  a  mad,  mad  search  for  glittering  spoil, 

"The  fruits  of  others'  weary  toil. 

"They  scanned  the  shores  of  the  Golden  State, 

"But  missed  in  their  search  its  big  front  gate. 

"But  where  is  the  Golden  Gate?"  again 
In  eager  accents  queried  Jane. 

"Oh,  the  Golden  Gate  is  far  away, 
"On  the  shores  of  California, 
"Where  the  poppies  shine  like  yellow  suns, 
"Upon  the  flowery  summer  dunes; 
"And  where  the  palm  and  orange  trees 
"Drop  sweet  perfumes  upon  the  breeze, 
"And  the  blood  of  the  luscious  grape  is  shed, 
"In  a  flowing  stream  of  rich,  rich  red. 

"But  how  about  the  gate.  Mamma? 
"Do  tell  me,  please,  and  right  away." 

"Oh,  the  Golden  Gate  you  could  not  climb 

"To  await  Papa  at  evening  time, 

"Nor  could  you  swing,  when  it  opened  wide, 

"Upon  the  top  of  its  flowing  tide. 

"The  gate  is  not  of  gold,  my  dear, 

"But  the  sands  of  the  flowing  rivers  were, 

"And  so  they  called  it  the  Golden  Gate, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


89 


"For  it  leads  to  the  gold  of  the  Golden  State. 

"And  when  the  sun  sets  in  the  sea, 

"And  his  face  looks  through  where  the  gate  should  be 

"The  waves  with  a  splendor  glow  untold 

"In  the  sunset  like  a  sea  of  gold; 

"And  the  place  is  always  open  wide, 

"For  the  gliding  ships  on  the  glowing  tide, 

"And  this,  my  dear,  is  the  magic  gate 

"Which  leads  to  the  fields  of  the  Golden  State." 


9^  BABYLON 


THE  CRASH  ON  THE   L.  X  B, 

You  say  I  am  finished,  doctor. 

And  you'd  save  me  if  you  could? 
Well,  I  don't  know  but  it's  just  as  well, 

For  I  never  was  much  good. 
What  can  you  do  for  me? 

And  what  word  would  I  like  to  leave? 
Just  ease  my  shoulder  a  little, 

And  pull  away  that  sleeve. 


Now,  in  my  side  pocket  there, 

If  it  hasn't  been  spilled  and  lost 
You  will  find  in  a  little  leather  book, 

A  letter  that  you  may  post. 
Yes,  that's  it,  its  directed  to  her, 

You  will  send  it,  doc,  all  right. 
Oh,  thank  you,  you  are  very  kind. 

She'll  get  it  to-morrow  night. 

It's  worth  five  thousand  dollars,  doc, 

That  letter  is,  to  her, 
If  I  die,  as  you  say,  before  sundown, 

It  hurts  me  here  to  stir. 
I  fixed  it  up  this  morning,  doc, 

Before  I  took  the  train 
And  doctor,  a  drop  of  water,  please. 

Oh,  that  was  an  awful  pain. 

I  didn't  know  but  I  might  get  hurt 
But  didn't  expect  quite  this. 

But  when  we  tumbled  down  that  bank 
'Twould  be  strange  if  I  should  miss. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  9I 

And  come  from  this  pile  of  kindling  wood 

Alive  to  tell  of  it, 
With  the  train  all  smashed  in  such  a  way 

Oh,  hadn't  I  better  sit? 

I've  been  looking  for  weeks  for  a  place  to  work 

And  make  a  living  in, 
But  I  haven't  more  than  made  my  way 

Wherever  I  have  been; 
So  I  thought  I'd  go  to  the  city  and  see 

What  the  chances  were  for  me, 
I  didn't  know  that  the  thing  would  end 

In  a  ditch  by  the  L.  &  B. 

I  had  a  letter  from  wife  last  week 
It  was  loving  and  kind  and  true, 
But  I  wouldn't  see  her  very  soon 
When  I  read  that  letter,  I  knew. 
"When  you  send  me  one  hundred  dollars 
"You  have  earned,  not  borrowed,  see? 
"I  will  start  the  next  month  to  the  end  of  the  earth 
"To  join  you,"  she  wrote  to  me. 

Well,  she'll  get  the  hundred  dollars  all  right. 

But  won't  need  to  follow  me. 
It  must  be  getting  dark,  doc. 

For  its  hard  for  me  to  see. 
What,  the  sun  is  shining  bright  yet? 

And  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky, 
Where  are  you?  I  cannot  see  you; 

There  is  something  in  my  eye. 

There,  that  will  do,  be  easy  now, 

And  let  me  lie  just  so, 
Unbutton  my  collar  and  let  me  breathe 

A  little  before  you  go. 


92  BABYLON 

She'll  come  to  me  after  awhile,  may  be. 

I  believe  it's  getting  bright. 
I  thought  of  her  and  the  babies  last; 

Tell  her,  doc,  good  night. 


TME  LOST  PICTURE. 

Oh,  Marguerite,  who  could  have  done  it? 

That  bit  of  pasteboard  with  your  shadow  on  it. 
They  have  taken  it  and  left  to  me 
No  token  that  the  world  can  see. 

But  in  the  gallery  of  my  aching  heart 
There  hangs  a  picture  which  shall  never  part; 
'Twas  painted  with  the  brush  of  glowing  youth. 
Exquisite  bears  the  touch  of  lovely  truth. 
There  it  shall  hang,  draped  in  the  lace  of  love, 
The  ideal  of  my  youth,  drawn  from  above, 
Until  the  webs  of  doubt  are  brushed  away. 
In  the  glad  dawning  of  the  glory  day. 


AND  •OTHER  POEMS.  9^ 


FLOATING  WITH  THE  STREAM. 

Oft  in  the  golden  days  of  youth, 
When  life  was  but  a  summer  dream, 

I've  wandered  off  to  some  secluded  nook 

And  idly  watched  the  fleecy  clouds, 
While  gently  floating  down  life's  drowsy  stream. 

Unseen,  unheard,  the  strife  and  toil, 

Left  in  the  busy  world  behind, 
While  I  with  lazy  longings  lay  and  dreamed 
Of  joys  unknown  and  sights  unseen 

Which  came  unsought,  which  I  shall  never  find. 

That  pleasure,  oh,  much  sweeter  far 
Than  any  worldly  thing  to  be  attained; 

Nothing  so  fair  as  the  kaleidoscope 

Of  boyhood's  idle  summer  dreams, 

If  to  the  bottom  pleasure  even  drained. 

Nothing  on  earth  so  really  fair 

As  seen  through  meshes  of  my  old  straw  hat, 
While  I  lay  idly  dreaming  wide  awake 
Nor  thought  nor  cared  for  aught, 

And  no,  not  even  thought  of  that. 

But  soon  the  boyhood  dreams  are  past, 

The  days  to  lie  and  idly  dream. 
And  we,  while  mingling  with  the  world. 
With  struggling  strife  of  men. 

Are  pulling  hard  against  the  flowing  stream. 

Yet,  while  we  mingle  in  the  struggle  here. 
Still  we  may  fix  our  gaze  on  things  above. 

And  brighten  up  the  strife  and  turmoil 

Here  below  with  mellow  sunshine 
Through  the  gilding  mesh  of  love. 


94  BABYLON 


BABY. 

Oh,   I   know   I   can't   describe   her   so   that   you   can 

understand; 
She  not  only  is  the  sweetest  child  in  all  this  mighty 

land, 
But  the  whole  world  don't  contain  one  half  so  nice 

as  our  Maree; 
She's   the   softest,    tenderest,    sweetest   one   that   ever 

you  did  see. 
She's   four   months   old,   and   laughs   and   crows   and 

tries  to  talk  and  sing; 
Her  helpless  moves  are  our  delight,  the  cunning  little 

thing. 

I  can't  describe  the  look  of  satisfaction  on  her  face, 
As  nestling  on  her  mother's  breast,  her  own  especial 

place, 
She  croones  and  sighs  contentedly  and  shuts  her  little 

eye, 
And  draws  the  living  stream  of  life  from  baby's  sweet 

supply. 
If  I  could  spell  her  goos  and  coos  and  all  the  things 

she  says, 
I'm  sure  'twould  make  the  biggest  book  I've  seen  in 

all  my  days. 
But  no   matter  how  she  twitters,   "mamma's  darling 

little  bird," 
No  one  can  understand  at  all  a  single  blessed  word. 

The  little  hands  go  wandering,  like  a  butterfly  at  play, 
Never  seeming  to  be  guided  in  any  certain  way. 
But  like  him,  the  little  fist  will  find  the  very  choicest 
place. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  95 

And  settle  down   content  upon   the   rosebud   on   her 
face. 

Her  little  feet  are  moving  back  and  forth  both  day 

and  night; 
Some  one  is  sure  to  kiss  them  whenever  they're  in 

sight. 
Her  mamma  holds  them  up  to  view  full  twenty  times 

a  day, 
And  says  "they're  sweet  enough  to  kiss,  now  aint  they, 

papa,  say?" 

She's  not  all  soft,  the  little  thing,  for  down  her  back's 

a  bone; 
Up  goes  her  head,  up  go  her  feet,   she'll  try  to  sit 

alone. 
She  thinks  if  she  should  try  enough  she  surely  would 

be  able 
To  straighten  up  her  back  and  sit  with  mamma  at  the 

table. 
She  bobs  and  grunts  and  twists  her  face,puts  up  her 

head  and  feet; 
She  beats  the  air  with  little  hands  then  gives  it  up 

complete. 
You  wouldn't  think,  to  read  these  lines,   that  she  is 

number  ten, 
But  so  it  is,  and  still  we  think  as  nice  as  ever  seen. 
It  may  be  so,  as  grandma  says,  the  last  is  best  of  all; 
She  is,  at  any  rate  we  think,  the  nicest  one  this  fall. 


BABYLON 


POLITICS. 

There  is  a  sewer  wide  and  deep  which  rolls  its  slug- 
gish stream 

Among  the  denizens  of  earth  where  countless  millions 
teem; 

Its  stenchfull  tide  is  turbulent  with  garbage  dead  and 
foul, 

And  on  it  microbes,  revelling,  are  feeding  cheek  by 
jowl. 

These  microbes  are  a  crafty  crew,  and  each  with 
schemes  is  big. 

As  squirming  at  their  stenchfull  feast  they  in  the  gar- 
bage dig. 

And  as  they  stench  for  stench  oppose  and  burrow 
day  by  day 

They  think,  to  win  the  fight  of  life,  there  is  no  other 
way. 

This  sewer  flows  through  all  the  world  where  striving 

mortals  are, 
They  think  the  fumes  of  its  ferment  a  needed  evil  are; 
And  so  the  creatures  that  it  breeds  increase  from  day 

to  day, 
And  fatten  on  its  reeking  tide  while  in  its  depths  they 

play. 

These  creatures  are  not  vile  entire,  for  some  there  are 

who  dream 
To  eat  away  the  gro>ving  filth,  and  purify  the  stream; 
And  some  there  are  who  fatter  grow  and  bigger  than 

the  rest, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  97 

As  squirming  o'er  their  struggling  mates  they  seek 

the  reeking  crest, 
And  chuckle    while  they    trample  down    the    weaker 

mites  below 
They  think  upon  these  simple  ones,  how  little  that 

they  know. 

Thus,  "cursed  is  the  man  who  trusts  upon  the  arm  of 

flesh," 
And  thinks  to  overcome  the  vile  by  puny  human  wish. 
And  thus  the  putrid   stream   will   flow   while   mortal 

man  is  blind, 
Until  with  willing  hearts  and  meek  the  source  of  truth 

they  find, 
Then,  when  by  faith  vain  striving  man  obedience  has 

learned, 
This  sewer  will  be  closed   for  aye;   its   garbage  will 

be  burned. 


98  BABYLON 


THE  STAR  OF  BEThLEMEM. 

To   the   Christian    Endeavor   Convention^ 

San  Francisco,  July,  1897. 
Over  rivers,  plains  and  mountains, 

With  the  bright  star  guiding  them. 
Came  to  the  ancient  Chaldees  hastening 

To  the  rock  of  Bethlehem. 

Guided  by  the  power  of  *wisdom, 
Meek  they  sought  that  manger  bed, 

Where  the  **love  of  heaven  was  cradled, 
And  its  beams  of  glory  shed. 

Gifts  they  brought  and  sweet  frankincense^ 
Worshiped  they  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

While  the  angels  o'er  the  shepherds 
Sang  in  strains  which  never  cease. 

Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  all  men, 
Was  the  song  the  angels  sung. 

And  through  ages  down  from  Bethlehem 
Has  the  carroll  ever  rung. 

Still  the  star  is  shining,  shining. 

Lighting  all  to  Jesus'  feet; 
Still  the  angels  whisper  carols, 

Everywhere  God's  children  meet. 

Over  rivers,  plains  and  mountains. 
With  an  aim  both  good  and  great. 


•Job  xxvili.  28. 
**I.  John  iv.  8, 16;  John  x.  30. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Army  of  Christian  Endeavour, 

To  the  sunset  Golden  Gate 
Came,  their  footsteps  hither  guiding 

By  the  star  of  Bethlehem; 
Here  the  love  of  heaven  lingered, 

With  his  power  o'erflowing  them. 

Here  each  soul  in  sweet  communion, 
Filled  with   Christian   sympathy, 

Each  becomes  in  each  enfolded, 
With  the  moments  passing  by. 

Shall  the  loving  ties  be  broken 
Which  have  bound  us  here  once  more? 

Never,  they  shall  onward  draw  us 
Till  we  reach  the  Golden   Shore. 

And  with  loving  eye  all-seeing 

He  will  watch  'tween  you  and  me, 

While  we're  absent  from  each  other. 
Until   we  his  glory  see. 


99 


100  BABYLON 


THE   DESERTED   HOMESTEAD. 

I've  been  to  the  old  place  to-day, 
Where  we  lived  so  many  years; 

Where  we  laughed  our  merriest  laughter, 
And  shed  our  bitterest  tears. 

I  wandered  out  among  the  weeds, 
Where  we  planted  in  the  spring, 

And  gathered  in  the  autumn 
Increase  from  everything. 

I  sat  in  your  old  chair,  wife — 

The  one  you  loved  the  best — 
In  which,  when  tired  at  evening. 

You  used  to  sit  and  rest. 

The  spring  is  covered  o'er  with  weeds, 

I  could  not  get  a  drink, 
But  sat  me  down  upon  the  bank 

Beside  it  there  to  think. 

The  path,  down  which  the  children  trooped 

To  meet  me  when  I  came, 
Is  hid  'neath  drooping  grasses  wet 

And  does  not  look  the  same. 

The  birds  and  mice  have  taken  charge 

Of  the  old  house  and  shed. 
And  nothing  but  the  legs  and  slats 

Are  left  of  the  high  bed. 

The  old  long  cedar  table. 

Round  which  we  used  to  meet, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  lOI 

Is  covered  o'er  with  moss  and  dust, 
And  nothing  there  to  eat. 

The  chairs  all  lonely  sit  arow 

Along  the  old  log  walls; 
Upon  their  homemade  backs  and  seats 

Askance  a  sunbeam  falls. 

The  cradle  sits  beside  the  door, 

A  frock  hangs  on  its  rail, 
But  let  me  listen  e'er  so  hard, 

I  cannot  hear  a  wail. 

The  orchard  grows  among  the  weeds, 

With  briar  and  bramble   filled, 
And  birds  and  rabbits  roam  about 

The  grounds  we  often  tilled. 

The  old  home  place  calls  up  the  years 

Of  toil  and  hope  gone  by, 
When  prospects  of  the  coming  day 

Encouraged  you  and  I. 

The  lake  in  quiet  beauty  lies, 

Among  the  forest  green. 
Just  as  it  did  in  those  old  days, 

When  we  came  on  the  scene. 

A  few  more  dwellings  round  it  sit. 

And  mirror  in  its  face; 
The  waters  sparkle  just  as  bright. 

And  you   would   know  the  place. 

But  turn  away  I  must,  and  move 
Among  the  rushing  throng; 


I02  BABYLON 

Such  quiet  scenes  and  memories 
They  cannot  keep  me  long. 

Good  bye,  old  place,  I'll  come  again 
And  drink  your  quiet  in, 

And  breathe  your  restful  solitude, 
Where  comes  no  turmoil  in. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I03 


*MT.  ST.    ELIAS. 

Gray  peak  of  the  north,  majestic  ye  stand, 
Silent,  alone  in  your  solitude  grand. 
Mount  St.   Elias,  Father  of  Gold, 
A  guard  to  the  glittering  path  to  the  cold. 

Your  fires  have  died 

And  your  rocks  are  cold, 
But  your  veins  are  asparkle 

With  glittering  gold. 
Your  fingers  reach   out 

To  the  north  and  the  south 
To  touch  as  with  magic 

The  aged  and  the  youth. 

Your  yellow  veins  flow 

From  the  fields  of  the  sun; 
Through  the  hills 

Of  the  New  El'd  Orado  they  run, 
But  the  heart  which  supplies  them 

Is  hid  in  your  breast, 
Whence  the  arteries  flow 

To  the  east  and  the  west. 

Nature's  crucibles  melted  your  coffers  to  fill 
With  treasures  you  lavish  the  world  at  your  will. 
You  stand  by  the  path  to  the  realms  of  cold — 
Mt.  St.  Elias,  Father  of  Gold. 


•Written  and  published  in  1888. 


I04  BABYLON 


RIDING  TME  GOLTS. 

Looking  backward  through  the  years 
With  their  mingling  hopes  and  fears, 
Through  the  vistas  stretched  away, 
Still  it  seems  but  yesterday; 
And  the  sight  comes  up  as  then, 
With  its  merriment  again. 

How  the  shouts  and  laughter  ring 
As  they  go  a-galloping, 
Colts  and  boys  and  dog  away, 
On  that  bright  and  happy  day. 
I  can  see  them  now  as  then, 
And  it  warms  my  heart  again. 

Colts  are  gone  to  horse-hereafter, 
Boys  are  scattered,  and  their  laughter 
Only  comes  in  memory. 
As  my  heart  looks  back  to  see; 
But  the  scene  is  cheering  still, 
Turn  as  often  as  I  will. 

Never  brighter  colts  or  boys 
Joined  in  making  frisky  noise; 
And  the  dog,  of  course,  must  be 
One  of  such  a  party,  he, 
As  they  clatter  in  the  ride 
Out  across  the  prairie  wide. 

How  they  ride,  those  boys  of  mine! 
What  care  they  for  saddles  fine? 
Barebacked  colts,  barefooted  boys, 
Each  seems  to  enter  in  the  joys, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  IO5 

As  out  they  troop  across  the  plain, 
A  shouting,  frisking,  jolly  train. 

Which  most  playful  are  to-day — 
Colts  or  boys — 'tis  hard  to  say. 
Flora,  mother  of  the  herd, 
Gets  coltish  when  she  hears  the  word, 
Forgets  her  years  and  joins  the  race; 
For  her  no  youngster  sets  the  pace. 

And  so  they  go  across  the  plain, 
With  streaming  tails  and  flowing  mane. 
Bold  Morgan-Durock  colts  are  they, 
And  out  with  boys  and  dog  at  play. 
A  ride  for  them  is  only  fun — 
Enjoyed  as  much  as  pasture  run. 

Ah,  me,  since  then  I've  often  seen 
Many  a  charger  sleek  and  clean. 
But  nothing  like  the  woolly  steeds 
That  galloped  out  across  the  meads, 
Bestridden  by  four  freckled  boys, 
Bent  on  fun  and  frisking  joys. 

No  equipage,  howe'er  so  fine, 
Can  I  within  my  heart  enshrine 
Like  that  glad  train  of  farmer's  boys, 
With  dogs  and  colts  and  all  their  noise. 
Those  lusty  colts — more  beauteous  steeds 
Than  e'er  bestrode  for  val'rous  deeds. 

And  as  I  think  upon  the  past 

I  see  them  madly  gallop  fast 

Away  into  the  distant  years. 

I  say,  as  gently  fall  the  tears, 

As  Father  Time  the  distance  bolts: 

'My  boys  come  back  and  ride  the  colts." 


I06  BABYLON 


THE  BACHELOR. 

In  the  past  three  years  in  the  forests  of  Western 
Washington,  in  one  county,  the  writer  has  known  one 
young  man  who,  while  felling  a  tree,  was  crushed  to 
death  by  a  falling  branch,  and  one  who  was  shot  and 
robbed  in  his  cabin;  one  who  was  crushed  and  burned 
to  death  in  his  cabin;  one  who  was  drowned  in  the 
river  close  by  his  own  door,  and  the  following  lines 
were  written  just  after  the  burned  remains  of  a  fine 
young  man  from  Iowa  were  discovered  in  the  ruins 
of  his  cabin  where  he  had  died  alone,  leaving  loving 
friends  back  in  the  Mississippi  Valley  to  mourn  the 
loss  of  their  brave  manly  boy  who  was  struggling  to 
carve  out  a  home  in  the  forests: 


Back  in  the  woods  in  his  cabin  alone 
With  nothing  to  cheer  when  his  day's  work  is  done. 
Save  the  rosy  red  firelight  which  glows  in  his  eye, 
Or  his  own  teeming  thoughts  which  give  birth  to  a 

sigh— 
His  hopes,  which  are  many,    his    books,  which  are 

few, 
Or  perchance  his  dog,  who  ever  proves  true. 
An  Adonis  in  beauty,  Apollos  in  strength, 
Is  the  sum  when  we  dwell  on  his  physique  at  length. 
Alone  in  the  woods  with  his  axe  and  his  thoughts 
And  no  fortune  but  hope  and  a  long  row  of  naughts. 

What  does  he  here  in  this  lone  solitude, 

With  no  sound  but  his  echoing  axe  in  the  wood, 

Or  his  own  song  or  whistle  sent  back  from  the  hills, 

Which  echo  his  soul  with  its  loneliness  fills. 

Of  what  are  his  dreams  as  he  sits  by  the  fire. 

His  hands  slowly  ruffling  his  curly  brown  hair. 

For  to-morrow  what  hopes  o'er  his  fancy  now  roll, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I07 

What  picture  is  framed  in  the  glass  of  his  soul? 
The  smile  rippling  softly  across  his  broad  brow 
Comes  out  from  the  scenes  of  his  solitude  now. 

He's  alone  in  the  woods  but  his  mind  is  away 

For  a  taste  of  sweet  joy  where  loving  ones  stay, 

For  a  glimpse  in  the  eye  of  she  who  he'd  wife, 

Or  fond  look  at  the  woman  who  gave  him  to  life. 

Away  with  the  ones  who  are  dreaming  at  home 

Of  the  day  when    their    pride  shall    invite    them  to 

come. 
He  is  thinking  of  them  and  his  face  is  o'erspread 
With  a  soft  look  of  hope  as  he  bows  down  his  head, 
And  asks  the  great  giver  of  good  in  the  skies 
To  watch  over  all  and  keep  tears  from  their  eyes. 

But  he  turns  from  his  thoughts  to  his  bachelor  fare, 
Which  consists  of  no  pastry  or  dainty  bits  rare; 
He  chokes  as  he  swallows  his  desolate  meal 
With  a  cloy  only  those  in  forced  hermitage  feel. 
He  thinks  of  the  toil  and  the  struggles  ahead — 
Of  the  years  before  then,  then  goes  weary  to  bed. 
But  awakes  on  the  morrow  with  nothing  but  hope. 
Only  thoughts  of  the  end  and  no  time  to  mope. 
He  sees  the  good  farm  and  the  cottage  he'll  rear 
And  the  sweet  maiden  there  who  the  place  will  en- 
dear. 
Each  thought  of  this  time  in  the  futures  so  bright 
Makes  his  heart  and  his  axe  and  his  labor  grow  light. 

But  hark!  there's  a  lull  in  the  crashing  of  trees. 
And  a  low  groan  of  agony  glides  o'er  the  breeze. 
God  grant  that  someone  may  be  wandering  near, 
And  this  weak  moan  of  sorrow  may  fall  on  his  ear. 
One  shivering  sigh  and  then  all  is  still 
Save  the  woodpecker  perched  in  the  tree  on  the  hill. 


I08  BABYLON 

Oh,  angels  look  down  from  your  heaven  and  weep 
On  the  mother,  the  maiden,  who  smile  in  their  sleep. 
As  they  dream  of  the  lad  with  the  ringlets  of  brown 
Who  is  toiling  so  bravely  for  love  and  his  own.     • 

Oh,  weary  the  maiden  grows  counting  the  days. 

How  anxious  the  mother  as  sadly  she  prays. 

No  tidings  from    Fred    as  the  months    grow    from 

weeks. 
No  peace  for  each  fond  one  wherever  she  seeks, 
At  last,  when  poor  nature  had  borne  all  it  could 
Came    simply    the    message,     "Found    dead    in    the 
"wood." 
"Oh,  my  boy!"  moaned  the  mother,   "thus  lonely  to 

"die— 
"None  to  smooth  the  rough  way  or  to  close  the  bright 

"eye." 
"Oh  God!"  mourned  the  maiden  and  clutched  at  her 
breast 
As  she  prayed,  "May  my  soul  soon  with  him  be  at 
"rest." 

They  found  him  one  day  with  a  tree  on  his  thighs 
With  one  arm  'neath  his  head  and  the  tears  in  his 

eyes. 
By  his  side  lay  his  axe,  on  its  handle  a  name — 
"Eloise,"  in  deep  letters,  speaking  love  and  its  dream. 
He  had  died  with  the  crash  which  had  pinioned  him 

there; 
Death  had  come  without  call  or  an  agonized  prayer. 
And  the  brave  lad  they  buried  that  day  in  the  mold 
Had  the  hopes  of  two  women  down  there  in  the  cold. 
Then  weep  for  the  sorrow  of  mother  and  lass. 
For  the  boy  they  both  loved  is  now  under  the  grass. 

Back  in  the  woods  in  his  cabin  alone, 

The  bachelor  sits  when  his  day's  work  is  done; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I09 

Let  no  one  speak  lightly  or  smile  at  his  lot, 
For  a  hero  is  he  who  this  battle  has  fought. 
He  may  die  in  the  crash  of  a  tree  o'er  his  head, 
Or  live  to  be  burned  in  the  wreck  of  his  bed. 
If  madness  should  miss  him  in  search  for  its  prey, 
The  robber  and  murderer  may  cut  short  his  day. 
And  the  ashes  his  cabin  has  left  on  the  ground 
Tells  not  of  the  blood  which  is  spattered  around. 
Thus  oft'  of  our  hermit,  his  pains  and  his  groans 
There  is  naught  left  to  tell  but  a  bundle  of  bones. 

Seattle.  1889. 


BABVLON 


TME  ALL  NIGHT  MEETING. 

They'd  been  praying  in    the  mission    for  the    fire  of 

Pentacost — 
That  with  favor  from  the  throne  of  grace  the  people 

might  be  blessed. 
And  that  each  and  every  soul  might  be  filled  up  with 

holy  fire. 
That  each  one  might  be  fed  on  food  that  should  with 

life  inspire. 

They  had  their  reg'lar  meetings,  and  their  day  of  fast 

and  prayer 
Right  along,  and  an  outsider  would  have  said  they 

had  their  share 
Of  the  Spirit,  and  of  blessings  which  were  thrown  in 

on  the  side, 
But  strange  enough  as    it    may  seem  they  were  not 

quite  satisfied. 

So  they  talked  the  matter  over.  Brother  Work  and 

Brother  Good. 
With  the  others    they    consulted    to    determine  how 

they  stood. 
And  when  they'd  prayed  and  fasted  and  hunted  in  the 

light 
They  agreed  they'd  hold  a  meeting  that  should  last 

throughout  the  night. 

So  they  gathered  Sunday  evening  at  the  mission,  re- 
inforced 

By  a  grave  determination  to  combat  with  fire  the 
worst. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  Ill 

There    were    songs     and     testimonies,    prayers    and 

speeches  all  about. 
Everybody    seemed    delighted    when    good    Brother 

True  came  out. 
But  a  thing  that  marred  the  meeting,  and  it  really 

was  too  bad, 
Was  chipping  in  by  Brother  Speake  when  anything 

was  said. 

However,  things  went  well  enough  till  twelve  o'clock 

at  night. 
Until  the  people  bowed  themselves  to  try  and  get  set 

right. 
Then  just  as  they  were  kneeling  round  and  praying 

on  the  floor, 
The  lamp  fell  down  on  Sister  True  and  made  a  fearful 

roar. 

Then  Brother  Work,  who  heard  the  crash,  but  didn't 
look  about. 

Said  "Praise  the  Lord!"  with  all  his  might  in  a  tri- 
umphant shout. 

But  in  a  moment  everyone  knew  what  the  trouble 
was. 

And  hurried  round  to  fight  the  fire  or  sidle  from  the 
place. 

But  Brother  Work  came    rushing    up  and  piled  the 

cushions  on. 
"I've  fought    the    Devil    oft'  before,"  said    he    as    he 

begun. 
Soon,  very  soon  the  fire  was  out,  the  people,  too,  as 

well, 
But  then  they  gathered  in  again,  their  joys  and  fears 

to  tell. 


112  BABYLON 

The  next  thing  which  disturbed  the  peace  was  when 

old  Brother  Speake 
On  baptism  raised  up  his  voice  to  a  soprano  shriek. 
They  couldn't  sing  or  pray  him  down,  but  raised  an 

awful  din, 
Till  a  poor  drunkard  passing  asked,  ''Do  I  pay  to  get 
"in?" 

At  last  old  Brother  Speake  got  up  and  took  himself 

away, 
Then  Sister  Bright  said  "praise  the  Lord,  now  let's 

"begin  to  pray." 
Then   Brother  Boys  went  hand  in  hand  along  with 

Brother  Good, 
And  singing  walked  about  the  room  like  "Children 

"in  the  Wood." 
And  everybody  laughed  in  spite  of  all  that  they  could 

do, 
Until  the  tears  ran  down  their  cheeks,  and  sides  were 
aching,  too. 

And  then  they  each  one  told  their  faults,  and  testi- 
monies flowed, 

And  prayers  and  songs  and  shaking  hands  until  the 
roosters  crowed. 

At  half-past  six  the  meeting  closed  and  all  the  folks 

went  home, 
And  all  agreed,  or  nearly  all,  that  it  had  helped  them 

some. 
But  still,  an    all-night    meeting    couldn't    make  the 

people  love. 
Unless  they  had  a  speaking  tube  connected  up  above, 
And  used  it,  too,   quite  frequently  in  meetings  and 

outside. 
And  lived  a  life  of  righteousness,  with  nothing  they 

would  hide. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  II3 


THE  STREAM  OF  OREGON. 

I  am  resting,    sweetly    resting,    on  the  placid    sea  of 

years, 
Where  are  no    distressful    longings  and    we    shed  no 

bitter  tears; 
In  my    rose-embowered    cottage,    while    the    time  is 

gliding  on, 
In  the  shadow  of   the    mountains    by    the    stream  of 

Oregon. 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  springtime  when  the  soft 
Chinook  has  come. 

And  the  silent  woods  are  gleaming  with  the  waxen 
trilleum, 

And  the  looms  of  nature's  weavers  have  their  carpet- 
ing begun, 

I  am  glad  I  am  a  dweller  by  the  stream  of  Oregon. 

When  the  bowing  fairy  lily  flecks    the    meadow  o'er 

with  white. 
And  the  air  so    soft  and    balmy    fills    my  spirit    with 

delight, 
Like  the  lambs  within  the  pasture  I  would  skip  and 

dance  in  fun 
O'er  the  slopes    within    the  valley    by  the    stream  of 

Oregon. 

When  the  sanguine  flowering  current  paints  each  ver- 
dant copse  with  blood, 

And  the  blushing  salmon  berry  shows  its  stars  within 
the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  dandelion's  shining  in  the  mellow  sun, 

We  are  happy  in  our  cottage  by  the  stream  of  Oregon. 


114  BABYLON 

When    the    dogwood   flowers   are   painted   and    hung 

among  the  trees, 
With  their  broad    and  milky  petals    catching    at  the 

passing  breeze, 
And  the  snowy  sweet  syringa  scents  the  very  brooks 

that  run. 
It  is  ecstasy  to  wander  by  the  stream  of  Oregon. 

When  the  roses  glow  in  Junetime  all  along  the  fences 

high, 
And  modest  blue    forgetmenots    reflect  the    summer 

sky. 
And    mysterious    mountain    magnets    are    repressless 

wooing  one, 
I    am  glad    my  home    is    nestling    by  the  stream    of 

Oregon. 

.  When  the  purple  clover  blossoms  mingle  with  the 
meadow  green. 

And  have  spread  a  royal  vesture  over  all  the  summer 
scene. 

When  the  hay  is  sweetly  curing  in  the  glowing  noon- 
day sun, 

Then  the  air  is  full  of  fragrance  by  the  stream  of 
Oregon. 

When  the  glorious  vine  maple  paints  each  hill  with 

brilliant  hues, 
And  the  harvest  time  is  over  and  the  bare  feet  seek 

their  shoes, 
And  the  snowy  mountains    glisten    with  the  web  the 

frost  has  spun. 
There  is  plenty  in  the  valley  of  the  stream  of  Oregon. 

So  in  comfort  by  the  fireside  of  my  cottage  I  will  sit, 
Looking  o'er  the  fields  and  orchards  of  the  flowing 
Willamette, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


"5 


And  I'll  thank  the  Glorious  Giver,  when  the  course  of 

life  is  run, 
That  my  lines  were  laid  in  pleasure  by  the  stream  of 

Oregon. 


Il6  BABYLON 


THE  UNLUCKY  DAY. 

I'm  going  to  bed,  I'm  almost  dead, 

I'm  tired  as  I  can  be. 
It's  been  the  most  unlucky  day 

That  ever  I  did  see. 
And  everything  from  morn  till   night 

Has  seemed  to  go  just  wrong. 
Until  I'm  most  discouraged 

Of  trying  to  get  along. 

First  Pa  got  up  and  built  the  fires, 

A  half  an  hour  about, 
Then  I  got  up  and  dressed  me, 

The  fires  they  both  went  out. 
Then  Pa  came  in  and  looked  quite  glum, 

I  asked  him  what  was  wrong: 
Some  one  had  called  at  our  hen  house 

And  took  six  hens  along. 

Then  Ruthie  tumbled  down  the  stairs, 

And  bumped  her  quite  severe; 
The  boys  were  scuffling  near  the  stove 

And  broke  my  rocking  chair; 
The  dog  tramped  down  my  choicest  plants, 

The  cow  broke  through  the  gate. 
And  tore  up  peas,  and  beans,  and  corn, 

At  a  disgusting  rate. 

The  clothes  line  fell  down  in  the  dirt, 

The  suds  boiled  on  my  feet; 
We  did  not  need  one  misery 

To  make  the  day  complete. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  II7 

But  Mooley  thought  'twould  do  us  good 

To  bear  a  little  more, 
And  so  at  night  she  kicked  the  milk 

All  over  on  the  floor. 

And  so  I  said  I'll  go  to  bed 

Or  I  shall  surely  weep, 
But  maybe  I'll  forget  my  grief 

If  I  can  go  to  sleep. 
Then  I  will  gladly  bid  good  night 

To  this  unlucky  day, 
With  head  and  body  aching  sore 

I'll  slowly  creep  away. 


Il8  BABYLON 


UIGTORIA  ARM. 

Oh,  I  long  to  follow  your  windings  away 

To  the  depths  of  the  forest  some  beautiful  day; 

To  sit  in  my  boat  with  my  oars  dipped  deep, 

And  pull  to  the  nooks  where  your  dark  waters  sleep; 

To  watch  (while  the  whistling  whirlpools  go  by 

In  our  pathway  of  bubbles  reflecting  the  sky) 

The  mansions  and  cottages  nestling  among 

Such  scenes  as  the  poets  most  often  have  sung; 

Where  the  lawns  sloping  down  to    your    waters  are 

seen. 
And  are  clothing  your  borders  in  carpets  of  green; 
Where  the  rocks    brown    and  mossy  are    washed    by 

your  stream, 
And  basking  in  sunlight  the  gulls  ever  dream. 

I  would  bend  to  my  oars  and  my  boat  it  should  go 
With  the  foam  on  its  bow  like  a  drift  in  the  snow, 
To  some  spot  in  your  shades  where  in  langor  I'd  lie 
With  my  hat  o'er  my  eyes  and  look  up  at  the  sky, 
And  dream  of  some  fairy  land  picture  afar, 
Where  scenes  ever  tranquil  and  rapturous  are; 
Or  swing  at  my  painter  in  some  sheltered  nook 
While  I  bury  my  mind  in  the  leaves  of  a  book; 
Or  go  to  the  grounds  where  the  picnickers  meet 
To  waste  summer  hours  with  frolicking  feet. 
To  your  gorge  I  would  go  where  waters  rush  through 
And  my  boat  cleaves  the  tide  like  a  shaft  from  a  bow, 
And  then  floating  in  on  the  flood  I  would  dream 
Where  pastures    and  meadows  come    down  to    your 

stream ; 
Where  the  farmhouse  and  orchard  entrancingly  glide 
On  our  view  as  we  lazily  drift  with  the  tide. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  II9 

Where  the  forest-fringed  lake  lies  sleeping  before, 
Its  mirror  all  green  from  the  trees  on  the  shore. 

Oh,  a  day  on  your  bosom,  my  pride  and  my  love 
Is  a  day  stolen  down  from  the  ether  above, 
And  if  I  for  your  joys  must  the  penalty  pay. 
Then  a  word  of  complaining  I  never  shall  say, 
But  guilty  I'll  plead  to  the  thrall  of  your  charm. 
To  the  hours  of  delight  on  this  beautiful  Arm. 


I20  BABYLON 


THE  NOISY  WORLD. 

Did  you  ever  think  what  a  noisy  place 

This  old  world  is  to-day? 
And  did  you  ever  stop  and  think 

How  still  it  used  to  be? 

The  great  steamships  now  plow  the  sea 

With  the  roar  of  fire  and  steam. 
Then,  white-sailed  boats  o'er  the  ocean  wave 

Glode  like  a  silent  dream. 

Then,  travelers  o'er  the  earth  passed  slow 

In  lumbering  stage  coach  still. 
Now,  roaring  trains  with  clang  and  screech 

Shake  forest  stream  and  hill. 

Then,  the  weaver's  loom  and  the  blacksmith's  forge 

And  the  lumber-maker's  mill. 
Made  no  more  noise  than  the  water  wheel 

Or  the  twittering  woodland  rill. 
But  now  great  engines  hiss  and  snort. 

And  a  million  whistles  scream 
Until  the  earth  seems  all  aroar 

Like  a  hideous  nightmare  dream. 

Then,  even  war  was  a  silent  thing, 

With  its  clash  of  sword  and  spear. 
And  its  loudest  sound  the  bugle  blast 

To  fall  on  the  listening  ear. 
Now  cannon  roars  and  rifle  cracks. 

Like  earthquakes  shake  the  ground. 
Until  the  earth  with  ague  rolls 

And  the  sky  seems  falling  down. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  still  the  earth's  no  happier 

Than  in  the  silent  days, 
When  men  were  content  with  simple  joys 

And  restful  quiet  ways. 

And  so  the  world  goes  roaring  on, 

While  the  weary  years  roll  round, 
Until  the  voice  of  Gabriel's  trump 

Shall  silence  every  sound. 
And  the  people  wait  with  bated  breath 

For  the  greatest  crash  of  all, 
When  the  Great,  Great  King  shall  take  control 

And  the  kings  of  earth  shall  fall. 


BABYLON 


THE  OLD  SWIMMING   HOLE. 

Yes,  Jim,  my  mind  goes  back  to-day, 

To  thirty  years  ago. 
When  you  and  I  a  swimming  went 

So  often,  don't  you  know. 
I'll  ne'er  forget  the  swimming  hole, 

Down  past  the  meadow  green, 
Where  shimmering  in  the  summer  sun. 

The  sand  bars'  backs  were  seen. 


What  times  we  had  those  glowing  days, 

At  the  old  swimming  hole. 
When,  gently  wooed  by  witching  June, 

We  out  of  school  had  stole. 
And  how  we  stretched  out  on  the  sand, 

Our  backs  all  gleaming  bare, 
As,  while  the  sun  danced  on  our  forms, 

We  tried  to  dry  our  hair. 

It  would  not  do  to  travel  home, 

With  locks  all  streaming  wet, 
For  sure  those  curls  of  moistened  hair 

Would  out  our  secret  let. 
But  as  we  wound  our  homeward  way, 

A  strange  sensation  crept 
Across  our  boyish  shoulder  blades, 

As  tenderly  we  stepped. 

At  supper  time,  some  one  would  touch 

Us  gently  on  the  back; 
Our  shirts  seemed  strangely  heavy — 

We  tried  to  make  them  slack. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  133 

It  seemed  as  though  some  hideous  spell 

Had  crept  in  to  our  skins, 
Which  made  us  squirm  and  wriggle  like 

A  million  burning  pins. 

At  bedtime  things  had  got  so  bad 

The  burning  made  us  scream, 
And  we  were  glad  when  mother  came 

To  spread  our  backs  with  cream. 
The  secret  out,  we  spent  the  night 

In  painful  groaning  thought, 
And  many  days,  with  backs  curved  up, 

We  sadly  walked  about. 

Oh,  how  could  I  forget  those  days, 

We  stole  away  from  school. 
When  we  would  in  the  water  plunge 

And  on  the  sandbar  roll. 
When  memory  of  the  hours  we  spent 

Is  printed  on  my  soul. 
By  sunbeams  through  a  smarting  back 

Down  at  the  swimming  hole. 


124  BABYLON 


SHENANDOA. 

Oh,  Shenandoa,  My  Shenandoa! 

When  shall  I  ever  see  thee  more? 

When  shall  I  wander  as  of  old 

Among  thy  meadows  green  and  gold? 

When  shall  I  hear  the  whispering  corn, 

At  dusky  eve  or  dewy  morn? 

Or  stand  upon  thy  hills  and  view 

Bewitching  scenes  forever  new, 

Below,  where  winds  thy  glimmering  stream? 

When  shall  I  in  the  June  time  slip 
Where  pendant  creepers  in  thee  dip; 
With  book  beneath  the  shade  to  lie, 
And  listen  to  thee  gliding  by? 
Or  in  thy  limpid  depths  to  swim, 
Below  the  arching  willow's  limb, 
Where  cattle  in  the  noonday  shade. 
Contented,  in  thy  waters  wade? 

When  shall  I  hear  the  calling  quail 

Sit  piping  on  the  topmost  rail? 

Where  sanguine  sumach  paints  the  hill, 

Which  echoed  back  the  whistle  shrill. 

When  shall  I  see  thy  crystal  brooks, 

Which  twitter  from  among  the  oaks, 

Or  hear  the  rushing  waters  swish, 

As  round  the  rumbling  wheels  they  push? 

Oh,  when  shall  I,  with  gladdened  gaze. 
Look  up  among  thy  mountains'  haze, 
Or  on  thy  blooming  farms  below. 
Between  whose  fields  thy  waters  flow? 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I25 

Oh,  never  will  a  sight  more  fair, 
Though  I  may  wander  near  and  far, 
Beguile  the  fleeting  hours  each  day, 
With  raptures  as  they  pass  away. 
Alack,  my  rural  vale,  I  know 
My  aching  feet  can  never  go 
A  wandering,  as  they  used  to  do. 
Among  thy  mountains  green  and  blue. 
These  eyes,  I  know,  can  never  see 
Your  beauties,  as  they  used  to  be; 
But  I  can  dream  of  scenes  gone  by, 
Which  raise  the  loving,  longing  sigh, 
Though  I  should  never  see  you  more, 
My  Shenandoa,  My  Shenandoa, 


126  BABYLON 


TUMWRTER. 

Tumwater,  with  its  tumbling  stream, 
A  bower  of  spring,  a  summer  dream; 
Down  deep  among  the  hills  of  green, 
The  spray  leaps  up  in  rainbow  sheen. 
Then  bending  willows  softly  dip. 
And  kiss  the  river's  blushing  lip. 
The  summer  sun  with  brow  of  red. 
Beholds  the  sea  and  river  wed. 
There  feathery  cedar  'dorns  the  wood, 
Above  the  cascade's  murmuring  flood. 
The  rock's  rough  cheek  is  damp  with  tears, 
As  he  the  river's  sobbing  hears. 
And  all  delight  the  artist  eye, 
While  fleecy  summer  clouds  float  by. 
And  fragrant  breezes  gently  stir 
The  tresses  of  the  stately  fir. 
All,  All,  breathe  forth  of  quietude, 
Which  feeds  the  poet's  pensive  mood, 
While  dreaming  of  the  virgin  days 
The  forest  and  the  stream  have  lost. 
Amid  the  decades  rushing  past. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  127 


dIM   HEMSWORTM. 

You  may  talk  about  your  generals  and  admirals  and 

such, 
But  according   to    my  notion  they  don't    amount    to 

much. 
I  like  the  kind  of  courage  that  has  learned  to  stand 

alone, 
And  doesn't  need  an  army  standing  by  to  say  well 

done. 


Oh,  certainly,  this  army  grit  is  always  well  enough. 
But  still,  in  my  opinion,  it  doesn't  take  the  stuff 
It  does  to  face  an  awful  death  with  no  one  by  to  see, 
And  cheer  the  heart  with  sympathy,  whatever  the  end 
may  be. 


Now    there    was    brave  Jim    Hemsworth,    at    Yotmg 

America, 
Who  jumped  in  to  the  jaws  of  death,  only  the  other 

day; 
He  ran  the  crank  above  the  shaft,  the  windlass,  don't 

you  know? 
While  Jimmy  Smith  and  Frank  Conson  were  working 

down  below. 


The  crank  snapped  off  when  Jim  hauled  up  a  bucket 

full  of  rock 
Just  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun;  it  was  an  awful  shock. 
The  bucket  shot  toward  the  men  with  a  terrific  force, 
Till  Hemsworth  jumped  among  the  cogs  and  stopped 

its  downward  course. 


128  BABYLON 

They  took  him  out  his  head  dropped  down  upon  his 

throbbing  breast; 
His  arm  was  to  his  shoulder  crushed,  and  torn  his 

side  and  breast. 
So    tenderly   they    took  him  up  and    bore    his    form 

away, 
And  every  eye  was  wet  with  tears  on  that  terrific  day. 

And  Smith  and  Conson  couldn't  talk  whene'er  they 

thought  of  him; 
Their  throats  stopped  with  a  rising  lump;  they  owed 

their  lives  to  Jim. 
And  so,  you  see,  I  came  to  think  there's  no  one  quite 

so  brave 
As  is  the  man,  who  all  alone,  will  jump  a  life  to  save. 

While  men  with    bugles    blowing  loud,  and    banners 

flying  gay 
May  face  the  cannon's  roaring  mouth  on  some  great 

battle  day, 
Still  I  admire  the  most  the    man    who    all  alone  can 

meet. 
And  lay,  without  a  comrade's  cheers,  his  life  at  duty's 

feet. 


r 
» 

g| 

f''^  fl 

pi. 

1 

i 

E^L    * 

••.xH 

Fair  Pend  dOrielle. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  1 29 


OLD  TIGE. 


You  never  heard  tell  of  old  yellow  Tige, 

Of  the  Fifteenth  army  corps, 
Who  marched  in  the  Red  River  campaign 

Of  eighteen  sixty-four? 

Why,  old  Tige  fed  the  boys  on  ham 

And  mutton  many  a  day, 
That  he  stole  from  the  ofBcers'  quarters 

In  a  most  intelligent  way. 

The  boys  they  thought  as  much  of  him 

As  they  could  of  any  one. 
And  he  knew  his  regiment  as  well 

As  any  other  man. 

He  was  wounded  at  Sabine  Cross  Roads, 

His  leg  was  broken  quite. 
But  the  surgeon  fixed  it  up  with  splints, 

And  he  was  soon  all  right. 

But  every  dog  must  meet  his  end. 

And  Tige  was  like  the  rest. 
And  at  Yellow  Bayou,  May  eighteen 

He  couldn't  stand  the  test. 

For  his  body  wasn't  bullet  proof. 
And  they  filled  him  full  of  lead, 

And  many  a  cheek  was  wet  with  tears 
When  the  boys  heard  he  was  dead. 

They  gave  him  a  soldier's  funeral, 
When  they  laid  him  in  the  ground; 


130  BABYLON 

They  fired  a  volley  over  his  grave, 
While  the  mourners  stood  around. 

And  that's  the  story  of  old  dog  Tige, 
Who  fought  with  the  Fifteenth  corps. 

In  the  famous  Red  River  campaign 
Of  eighteen  sixty-four. 


AND  OTHER  POKMS.  131 


THE   PATIENT  ONE. 

Who    is    it.    when  the  times    are  hard,  and    we    can 

scarcely  live, 
Will  never  ask  for  anything,  but  always  tries  to  give? 
Who  wears  her  last  year's  bonnet  and  goes  without  a 

cloak? 
Who  laughs  about  her  worn-out  gloves  as  though  it 

were  a  joke? 

Why,  Mother. 

Who  is  it  always  says  that  Pa  must  be  provided  for, 
And  always  have  a  coat  and  hat  if  nothing's  left  for 

her? 
Who  wants  the  children  to  look  nice,  no  matter  what 

she  wears. 
And  always    smiles    and    says  "all  right,"  and    never 

shows  she  cares? 

Why,  Mother. 

Who  is  it  drinks  cold  water  when  others  must  have 

milk, 
And  when  there's  only  bread  to  eat  will  never  cry  or 

sulk? 
Who  waits  upon  the  others,  and  never  seems  to  tire, 
And  in  the  night  when  they  are  sick  gets  up  and  builds 

the  fire? 

Why,  Mother. 

Who  is  it  always  stays  at  home  when  all  the  others  go, 
Who,  if   she  wants  to  get    outside    no    one   will  ever 

know? 
Who  darns  and  patches,  mops  and  scrubs  and  combs 

the  children's  hair, 


132  BABYLON 

And  sews  on  carpet-rags  and  knits  when  she  has  time 
to  spare? 

Why,  Mother. 

Who  keeps  the  supper  warm  for  Pa  whenever  he's  out 

late, 
And  when  we  have  a  treat  she  puts  the  nicest  on  his 

plate? 
Who  feeds  the  others  often  when  she  must  go  without, 
So  careful  that  her  own  regrets  no  one  shall  know 

about? 

Why,  Mother. 

Who'll    have  the    freshest,    greenest  home    in    God's 

green  Paradise? 
Who'll  have  the  finest  mansion  when  she  goes  above 

the  skies? 
Who,  if  I  have  my  way,  wont  have  a  single  hand  to 

stir, 
And  the  youngest,  fairest  angels  just  to  stand  and  wait 

on  her? 

Why,  Mother. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I33 


THE  TREMBLING  WORLD. 

A  curious  old  world  this  is  with  all  its  funny  works, 
I  wonder  we're  not  all  sea  sick  with  all  its  jumps  and 

jerks. 
They  say  a  stone  thrown  in  the  sea  a  thousand  miles 

or  more, 
Will  make  a  wave  which  circling  will  reach  unto  the 

shore. 

And  so  they  say  a  little  jar  upon  the  earth,  though 

light, 
Will  circle  clear  around  the  globe  from  morning  until 

night. 
Now  with  so  many  thumps  and  knocks  the  earth  must 

be  shuck  up 
The  whole  endurin'  blessed  time,  like  water  in  a  cup. 

When  some  big  man  stomps  down  his  foot  to  empha- 
size his  talk — 

There  must  be  thousands  doin'  it  while  politicians 
walk. 

And  then  just  think  of  all  the  carts,  and  horses,  too, 
there  are, 

They  must  shake  up  a  lot  of  ground  and  give  it  quite 
a  jar. 

And  then  the  cars    a    puffing    and    running    o'er  the 

ground — 
The'd  give  the  earth  an  ague  shake  with  their  great 

roaring  sound; 
And  when  the  big  guns  boom  again  down  at  the  trial 

yard. 
It  must  shake  up  the  bowels  of  the  earth  most  awful 

hard. 


134  BABYLON 

And  so  I  think  it's  strange,  I  say,  that  we're  not  sea 

sick  quite. 
With  all  this    roar  and    clatter  from    morning    until 

night; 
For  there's  a  constant  banging  on  the  surface  of  the 

earth, 
To  say  nothing  of  the  earthquakes  from  his  inwards 

belching  forth. 
And  if  its  true,  that  every  jar  is  felt  the  world  around, 
We  must  be  kept  a  shiv'ring  from  our  heads  down  to 

the  ground. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I35 


WHEN  THE  GROWS  FLY  HOME. 

When  the  crows  fly  home  the  sun  is  low, 

Bringing  western  shadows  near, 
And  the  farmer  listens  in  the  field. 
The  supper  horn  to  hear. 

It  is  time  for  all  to  cease  their  toil, 
When  the  crows  fly  home. 

When  the  crows  fly  home  to  the  Carraboos, 

With  many  a  caw  and  flap, 
The  busy  mills  will  stop  their  hum. 
And  the  blacksmith  cease  his  tap. 

Soon  all  the  world  will  be  at  rest, 
When  the  crows  fly  home. 

When  the  crows  fly  home  the  tide  is  in. 

The  waves  wash  on  the  shore, 
And  to-day  the  birds  on  the  bare  tide  flats 
Will  search  for  food  no  more. 

The  world  will  stop  its  strife  for  bread, 
When  the  crows  fly  home. 

When  the  crows  fly  home,  and  I  watch  here 

Their  rear  guard  out  of  sight, 
Stealing  up  o'er  the  western  hills, 
Come  the  vanguard  shades  of  night 

We  welcome  the  restful  twilight  hour. 
When  the  crows  fly  home. 

When  the  noisy  crows  have  all  flown  home, 

The  glittering  stars  shine  bright, 
And  everything  is  silent, 
With  the  somber  hush  of  night. 

The  whole  world  sleeps  in  silence, 
When  the  crows  have  all  flown  home. 


136  BABYLON 


MARCH. 

When  Father  Time  called  his  daughter  March, 

To  come  from  her  winter  bed, 
She  shyly  peeped  at  the  drifting  snow, 

Then  covered  up  her  head. 

But  he  called  again,  more  urgently, 
For  the  cold  from  the  northeast  swept, 

And  she  groaned  as  from  the  frosty  quilts 
The  shivering  maiden  crept. 

For  a  time  she  shivered  around  the  fire 

But  borrowed  winter's  cloak, 
And  faced  the  frowns  of  the  world  outside 

Then  her  sister  spring  awoke. 


The  days  grew  warm,  and  the  sun  came  out. 

And  gentle  Chinook  came  too. 
The  earth  and  sky  grew  soft  and  warm, 

And  mellow  breezes  blew. 


The  moon  and  frost  made  a  heartless  plan, 
And  chilled  the  glowing  nights, 

But  each  passing  day  was  a  golden  dream. 
With  budding  spring's  delights. 

The  sky  looked  at  the  sea  and  blushed, 

As  the  sun  crept  into  bed. 
The  sea  looked  back  and  her  face  became 

A  rosy,  rosy  red. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  137 

The  winter  cloak  has  now  been  packed 

Away  with  camphor  balls, 
While  roguish  March  has  softly  purloined 

The  April  shower  which  falls. 

And  so  the  whole  world  wandering  out, 

Mid  flowers  to  dream  and  delve. 
Vote  daughter  March  of  '96, 
The  fairest  of  the  twelve. 
Blaine,  Wash. 


138  BABYLON 


THE  OLD   FASHIONED  SCHOOL- 
MASTER. 

Line  up,  you  white  heads,  now,  on  Shasta, 
And  steady,  there,  now  do  it  tasty. 
For  in  this  class  we  must  have  order. 
If  we  are  taught  upon  the  border. 

Baker,  they  say  that  you've  been  smoking, 
Now  this  is  not  a  thing  for  joking; 
To  hear  it  I  have  been  quite  vexed, 
I  fear  that  you'll  be  spewing  next. 

And  you,  Rainier,  you're  big  enough 
To  better  know  than  use  such  stuff. 
Though  in  a  way  you  do  it  sneaking. 
They  say  your  breath  is  sometimes  reeking. 

And  Shasta,  you,  head  of  the  class, 
I  couldn't  let  such  actions  pass. 
I  hear  that  you  began  the  mischief, 
A  thing  almost  beyond  my  belief. 

And  Hood,  they  say  that  you've  been  sliding 
And  also  my  fir  switches  hiding; 
And  rolling  stones,  I  hope  you  haven't. 
For  such  conduct  is  quite  indecent. 

Rainier,  I'll  surely  send  you  home-ah. 
If  you  frown  so  upon  Tacoma. 
Because  you're  bigger,  too,  than  Adams, 
You  need  not  crowd  so  with  your  brogans. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I39 

And  you,  St.  Helens,  must  you  stand 
In  front  of  Adams,  airs  so  grand, 
Because  you  are  a  little  taller; 
I'm  sure  his  lessons  are  no  smaller. 

Then  "Mr.  Olympus?"  Schucksan  asks, 
"Can  I  be  counted  in  the  class?" 
"Silence,  sir!"  the  teacher  roared, 
"Such  impudence  I  can't  afiford. 
"If  I  am  short  you'll  find  I'm  able 
"To  run  correct  the  teacher's  table." 

The  little  fellows  up  in  line 
Then  tried  to  wear  demeanors  fine; 
The  teacher  standing  out  in  front, 
They  feared  with  all  his  manners  blunt; 
And  silence  fell  on  all  the  school. 
While  the  grim  master  took  his  stool. 


T40  BABYLON 


MY  TWINING   ROSE. 

There  sprung  by  our  lowly  cottage  door 
A  plant  as  fair  as  e'er  seen  before. 
We  tenderly  nursed  it  day  by  day, 
And  the  joyful  years  thus  passed  away, 
As  sweet  it  garnished  the  fleeting  hours, 
We  longed  to  see  it  adorned  with  flowers. 

It  bloomed  one  day  with  blossoms  fair 

As  flowers  that  grow  where  angels  are. 

Oh,  how  we  joyed  in  that  sweet  rose  tree, 

Which  bloomed  alone  for  us  to  see; 

And  spoke  our  delight,  yes,  o'er  and  o'er. 

As  it  twinned  and  blossomed  about  our  door. 


We  lived  so  much  in  our  lovely  prize. 
That  we  knew  not  the  gaze  of  envious  eyes. 
As  it  bloomed  most  fair  on  a  sad  bright  day, 
One  softly  came  and  bore  it  away; 
And  left  the  door  of  my  cottage  bare, 
And  we  to  weep  for  our  rose  so  rare. 

I  wandered  out,  with  my  heart  all  dew, 
To  try  and  find  where  my  sweet  flower  grew; 
Till  at  last  I  came  to  a  city  grand, 
Where  a  river  rippled  o'er  golden  sand; 
And  there  I  found,  where  a  throng  could  see, 
By  a  palace,  bloomed  my  white  rose  tree. 

I  said,  as  I  saw  the  delighted  throng. 
Stop  and  admire  as  they  passed  along: 
'Ah,  me,  ah,  me,  it  is  better  so. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I4E 

'Than  that  I  should  enjoy  you  alone  below; 
'So  blush  and  bloom,  and  perfume  the  air 
'For  the  heavenly  throng  in  the  City  fair." 


ACER  GIRGINATUM. 

A  grand  bouquet  on  every  hill 
The  bright  vine-maple  stands; 

With  blended  colors  exquisite 
From  nature's  painter's  hands. 

The  glory  of  the  autumn  now 

With  royal  tints  aglow, 
Acer  circinatum  shines 

Wherever  we  may  go. 

With  royal  purple,  orange,  too. 

Her  robe  is  woven  well. 
And  scarlet,  yellow,  green  and  gold, 

With  skill  we  cannot  tell. 

So  I'll  not  try  to  picture  all 
The  glories  she  can  show, 

Through  all  the  months  of  autumn, 
E'er  robbed  by  blustering  snow. 


142  BABYLON 


FLORA   MAGDONALD. 

Flora  Macdonald  is  lovely, 

Flora  Macdonald  is  fair 
And  she  has  twinkles  in  her  feet 

And  sunshine  in  her  hair. 
Her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  a  patch  of  sky 

Through  a  fluffy  summer  cloud, 
And  they  sparkle  and  dance 

As  I  look  at  her,  with  my  heart  to  her  beauty  bowed. 

Her  cheek  is  Hke  a  blushing  rose, 

But  the  colors  come  and  go, 
As  the  waves  in  grass  in  summer  time, 

When  the  gentle  breezes  blow. 
Her  lips  would  tempt  a  heart  more  cold 

Than  mine  to  stoop  and  taste, 
But  she  did  not  know  how  she  tempted  me. 

As  I  looked  in  her  lovely  face. 

You  would  like  to  know  where  my  Flora  lives. 

And  see  her  bewitching  charms 
And  make  the  roses  come  in  her  cheek 

As  her  smile  your  bosom  warms? 
She  dwells  in  the  Queen  City  fair. 

By  the  side  of  the  deep  blue  sea. 
And  I  met  her  on  a  quaint  back  street. 

The  day  that  she  captured  me. 

Oh,  no,  there  is  no  danger  there. 

For  she's  only  four  years  old, 
And  never  heard  of  the  Wizard  Seer 

Who  sang  to  the  Scots  so  bold — 
Of  the  other  Flora  Macdonald, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I43 

Who  couldn't  have  been  more  fair, 
Though  she  fought  for  Culloden's  pretender 
With  a  courage  grand  and  rare. 

But  my  Flora  Macdonald  is  lovely, 

My  Flora  Macdonald  is  fair, 
And  I'll  never  forget  her  blue,  blue  eye, 

Or  the  sunshine  in  her  hair. 
That  vision  of  baby  lovliness, 

I  met  on  Beacon  Hill. 
Oft*  on  a  dreamy  summer  day 

I  think  I  can  see  her  still. 
And  though  she  grow  to  a  woman  grand. 

Or  perchance  to  one  more  plain, 
I  never  expect  with  delight  to  gaze 

On  a  child  more  fair  again. 
Victoria,  June,  1885. 


144  BABYLON 


FISHING. 

Did  you  ever  go  a-fishing  with  a  slender  bamboo  pole, 
And  when  you  didn't  get  a  bite  just  throw  it  in  the 

hole? 
Did  you  ever  fish  and  fish  and  fish  and  never  get  a 

bite; 
Then  hang  around  the  creek  all  day  and  come  home 

in  the  night? 

Did  you  ever  go  a-fishing  and  leave  your  pole  behind, 
And  with  your  knife  a  sapling  cut,  the  best  that  you 

could  find, 
And  hold  it  up  above  the  stream  till  you  were  tired 

out, 
And  then  go  whistling  home  again  without  a  single 

trout? 

Did  you  ever  fish  four  days  in  five — ^you  stole  the  time 

to  go, 
And  never  catch  a  mess  of  fish  that  you  would  care  to 

show? 
And  then  the  fifth  come  proudly  home,  while  flapping 

at  your  side, 
Would  hang  a  string  of  beauties  that  you  didn't  care 

to  hide? 

Your  reputation  then  was  made,  and  no  one  knew  the 

days 
That  you  had  tired,  hungry,  mad,  come  home  by  secret 

ways; 
Nor  what  these  fish  had  cost  you,  of  time,  chagrin  and 

such; 
Your  reputation  wasn't  made  by  fish  you  didn't  catch. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I45 


ciEALOUSY. 

Thou  art  a  crawling,  creeping  worm, 

A  specter  for  the  soul's  alarm; 

A  carrion  bird  to  seek  for  stenchful  food; 

A  goblin  of  fear  to  spoil  the  greenest  wood; 

A  nothing  but  a  great  geboo, 

To  worry  grown  up  children  as  you  do; 

Your  food  is  black  suspicion  foul, 

Your  sweetest  song  but  a  discordant  howl. 

You  daub  the  purest  acts  with  slime; 

Your  spleen  is  vent  without  regard  to  time. 

Your  dearest  work  is  in  your  garden,  hate, 

Where  you're  employed  both  early  and  both  late, 

To  raise  a  bitter  vegetable  called — well, 

There  is  no  need  its  name  the  world  to  tell. 

You  make  a  man  a  stubborn  beast,  a  mule, 

A  coward,  sneaking  mangy  cur  and  fool; 

A  boor,  a  slanderer,  with  lost  self-respect, 

Who  murders  her  whom  he's  sworn  to  protect. 

A  runaway,  with  carriage  smashed,  and  reins, 

And  tearing    down  the    street    to    dash  out    his    own 

brains. 
With  all  behind  of  peace  and  love  and  truth, 
And  all  before  of  fear  and  hate  and  death. 

Of  woman  you  have  made  a  snarling  cat. 
Who  sends  suspicious  glances  other  women  at, 
A  tigress,  filled  with  fear  and  spite  and  sin. 
She  paces  up  and  down  her  den  within; 
Rob  her  of  reason  and  respect  of  age. 
Feed  her  suspicion  and  foul  hate  and  rage. 
Faith,  love  and  trust  behind,  forgotten  name 
All,  all  before  her  fear  and  death  and  shame. 


146  BABYLON 


OAK  AND  lUY. 

In  the  forest  grew  an  oak  tree  all  alone; 
Of  a  thousand  other,  oak  trees  he  was  one, 

But  his  heart  was  fancy  free; 

He  a  bachelor  would  be 
Till  he  found  a  mate  attractive  for  his  own. 

The  other  trees  this  sturdy  oak  did  flout. 
And  said  a  mate  to  get  he  should  about; 

But  he  waved  his  arms  in  glee, 

And  he  said  "I  would  be  free, 
Till  my  heart  feels  its  affection  going  out." 

An  ivy  grew  beside  the  oak  tree's  feet, 

And  it  smelled  the  flowers  and  clover  growing  sweet. 

But  it  loved  the  sturdy  oak, 

As  it  cast  its  upward  look; 
In  his  arms  it  dreamed  of  happiness  complete. 

So  the  ivy  clung  around  his  noble  form, 
Unrepulsed  and  never  thought  of  any  harm, 

For  the  oak  tree  loved  to  have 

Her  seek  his  protection  brave, 
While  they  felt  the  summer  breezes  soft  and  warm. 

So  the  ivy  always  clung  about  her  love. 
Till  their  lives  appeared  for  ever  interwove; 
They  mumured  soft  and  sweet, 
That  their  love  was  quite  complete. 
While  the  forest  whispered  softly,  "we  approve." 

But  while  the  ivy  clung  upon  her  love, 

There  was,  gnawing  at  his  vitals  from  above, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  947 

A  disease  that  should  bring  low 
His  proud  form  upon  the  snow, 
When  the  winter  blasts  across  the  plain  should  move. 

Still  the  loving  ivy  clung  upon  his  form, 

As  if  to  shield  him  from  all  threatening  harm, 

But  he  could  not  cling  to  her, 

Though  he  felt  affection  stir, 
And  knew  he  could  not  breast  the  winter's  storm. 

Thus  when  the  cold  December  breezes  blew, 
Sad,  sad  at  heart  the  clinging  ivy  knew 

That  she  could  not  save  her  love, 

No  matter  how  she  strove 
To  comfort  him  with  her  affection  true. 

Prostrate  he  lay  upon  the  frozen  earth, 

Until  the  spring  to  budding  flowers  gave  birth; 

But  still  clinging  to  his  form. 

As  though  his  love  to  warm, 
The  ivy  reached  her  springing  tendrils  forth. 

But  at  last  she  knew  that  death  had  claimed  her  love; 
Her  affection  began  to  gaze  and  rove; 

A  chestnut  growing  near, 

Seemed  unto  her  very  dear. 
So  she  ran  and  sought  his  sheltering  arms  above. 


t48  BABYLON 


BOUTONIERE. 

My  three  little  girls  they  ran  to-day 

To  bring  me  a  buttonhole  bouquet; 

They  gathered  the  blossoms  in  bunches  three, 

With  love  in  their  dear  little  hearts  for  me. 

They  brought  their  oflFerings  one  by  one, 
With  faces  aglow  in  the  springtime  sun, 
And  eyes  as  bright  as  the  flowers  they  bring, 
And  voices  as  sweet  as  the  birds  can  sing. 

My  darling  Ruth,  the  youngest  of  them. 
Held  a  pansy  up  with  a  very  short  stem. 
I  couldn't  grieve  her  loving  heart; 
It  must  make  of  my  boutoniere  a  part. 

Jane  brought  a  primrose  like  herself, 
And  a  wallflower  sweet,  the  dear  little  elf. 
Of  course  for  them  I  must  find  a  place, 
To  keep  the  smile  on  her  loving  face. 

Then  with  a  rosebud  and  sweet  pea 
My  Marguerite  came  with  delight  to  me, 
And  laid  in  my  hand  her  offerings  fair, 
While  she  brushed  away  her  curling  hair. 

I  could  not  reject  a  single  flower 
To  spoil  for  one  that  happy  hour. 
So  I  said,  while  my  buttonhole  was  full, 
"My  dear  little  girls,  I  will  take  them  all." 


Oconta  Oorve,  Columbia  River. 


AND  OTHER  POBMS.  I49 


*THE   HARP  OF  THE  SANDS. 

I  sat  one  night  where  the  flowing  tide 

Came  in  at  the  Golden  Gate, 
And  listened  to  the  restless  sea, 

Though  the  hour  was  growing  late. 

The  earth  was  still,  the  ocean  calm, 

The  air  was  soft  and  low. 
And  the  only  thing  that  made  a  sound 

Was  the  creeping  water's  flow. 

A  ship  passed  in  the  dusk  along, 

Like  a  phantom  up  the  bay. 
Its  tall  masts  mirrored  in  the  deep, 

While  it  slipped  in  the  gloom  away. 

The  sea  birds  chattered,  as  they  flew, 

In  whispering  notes  of  night, 
Or  sat  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

When  the  moon  came  into  sight. 

The  porpoise  flashing  in  and  out, 

Far  oflf  on  the  distant  sea. 
With  all  the  other  ocean  sights, 

Made  an  evening  show  for  me. 

And  so  I  sat  and  listened  to 

The  ocean's  mighty  swells. 
The  story  which  the  sea's  unrest. 

Forever  throbbing,  tells. 


♦Facts. 


ISO  BABYLON 

And  then  I  walked  in  the  soft  moonlight, 

And  listened  to  the  tide, 
As  it  glided  in  through  the  Golden  Gate, 

From  the  ocean  green  and  wide. 

At  last  I  stopped  and  held  my  breath, 

For  a  strain  of  music  came, 
Like  the  wind  through  strings  Aeolian, 

Too  sweet  to  have  a  name. 

And  sad  and  low  it  floated  up, 

From  the  ocean-dampened  sands. 
Like  a  harp  thrust  out  from  the  hurrying  deep 

And  played  by  unseen  hands. 

I  stood  and  listened  to  the  strains, 

I  had  one  time  heard  before, 
To  the  harp  of  the  sands  played  by  unseen  hands. 

In  the  rocks  along  the  shore. 

The  hour  was  right,  for  alone  at  night 

Will  the  sand  harps  ever  play; 
When  the  flowing  tide  begins  to  glide 

Into  the  shadowy  bay. 

I  listened  wrapt  to  the  sad,  sweet  strain, 

For  I  knew  when  the  tide  was  in 
No  more  would  the  sand  harp  play  for  me, 

By  the  fingers  soft  unseen. 

Nor  could  I  hear  in  the  daylight  glare 

This  music  of  the  night, 
For  the  glowing  sun  would,  soaring  high, 

Give  the  wierd  musicians  fright. 


AND  OTHER  POBMS. 


151 


So  I  drank  my  fill  till  the  music  ceased, 
And  I  knew  I  should  hear  no  more, 

Then  back  to  the  city  I  took  my  way, 
Along  the  rock-bound  shore. 


152  BABYLON 


COLORED  NOISE. 

*Twas  in  a  farmhouse  chamber  room  some  thirty  years 
ago, 

The  earth  was  frozen  up  outside  and  covered  white 
with  snow. 

Four  boys  had  been  tucked  snugly  in  for  ten  long  win- 
ter hours, 

But  now  the  prying  glance  of  dawn  had  roused  them 
from  their  snores. 

They  stood  about  the  stovepipe  warm  on  one  foot  or 

on  two. 
As  slow  slid  on  a  trouser  leg  or  foot  slipped  in  a  shoe. 
But  suddenly  there  came  a  whack,  a  pillow  fair  and 

square, 
Aimed  with  a  careful  boyish  hand,  struck  Tom  across 

the  ear. 

Of  course  the  pillow  must  go  back,  and  thus  the  fight 

began, 
And  thick  the  feathery  bundles  flew  like  popcorn  in  a 

pan. 
Sometimes  the  boys  were  on  the  floor  and  sometimes 

on  the  bed. 
And  while  the  battle  fiercely  raged  the   noise   grew 

very  red. 
At  last  a  gentle,  soft,  gray  noise  came  floating  from 

below. 
And  mother  kindly  plead  with  them,  "oh,  boys,  please 

don't  do  so." 
A  lull  fell  on  the  mad  career  for  full  a  minute  then. 
But  blood  was  up,  and  soon  anew    the    battle  raged 

again. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  153 

The  fight  bid  fair  to  work  distress  with  mother's  pil- 
lows there, 

When  suddenly  a  great  black  noise  came  rolling  up 
the  stair. 

As  through  the  open  chamber  door  came  father's 
angry  head, 

Four  half  dressed  boys,  with  puflf  and  pant,  rolled 
nimbly  into  bed. 

Like    prairie    dogs    they     disappeared    within    their 

tumbled  nest, 
And — well,  I  wish  with  all  my  heart,  I  needn't  tell  the 

rest. 
For  father's  hand  was  large  and    hard,    the  boys  not 

over  dressed; 
Humiliation  met  us  there,  if  it  must  be  confessed. 

And  then  there  fell  above  the  stairs  a  silence  cold  and 

white 
When  father,  with  a  warning  brown,  had  vanished  out 

of  sight. 
And  meditation  was    the    rule    around    the  stovepipe 

then. 
While  sad  and    slow    the    boys    commenced  to  dress 

themselves  again. 


154  BABYLON 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LETTER. 

Everywhere  else  in  this  country  a  California  letter 
is  known  by  a  peculiar  perfume  which  it  exhales;  a 
perfume  which  seems  a  combination  of  the  scents  of 
orange,  banana,  pomegranate  and  apple,  and  is  a» 
mysterious  as  a  dream,  as  it  floats  out  when  the  letter 
is  opened. 

He  came  to  her  bedside  so  gently, 

Laid  a  hand  on  her  feverish  brow, 
And  said,  while  he  touched  her  soft  bandaged  eyes, 

I've  something  here,  sweet,  for  you  now. 


"I've  a  letter,  my  wife,  with  sweet  odors  rife, 

"And  the  scent  its  envelope  exhales 
"Might  come  on  a  breeze  from  the  isles  of  the  blessed, 

"And  reminds  me  of  strange  fairy  tales. 

"There  are  roses  and  lilies  and  sweet  apple  flowers 

"Hid  away  mid  its  secret  perfumes, 
"Pomegranates  and  palms  float  my  visions  before, 

"Or  the  groves  where  the  orange  tree  blooms. 

"Can  you  guess  the  fair    clime    where    this    letter  so 
"sweet 

"Folds  away  mid  its  odorous  reams 
"Perfumes  from  Araby  or  Italy's  shores, 

"Which  waken  the  heart's  warmest  dreams?" 

"Place  it  here,"  said  the  wife,  "though  I  cannot  behold 

"I  may  its  sweet  odors  inhale, 
"By  aroma  of  fruits  and  attar  of  flowers, 

"Let  it  tell  me  its  exquisite  tale. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  155 

"Oh,  I  see,  as  I  catch  the  perfume  laden  breath, 

"California's  rivers  of  gold; 
"Her  mountains,  her  valleys,  her  fruits  and  her  flowers 

"Entranced  does  my  vision  behold. 

"No  land  so  bewitches  by  sending  its  breath 

"Imprisoned  in  letters  so  far. 
"I  know  without  guessing  my  letter's  from  where 

"California's  orange  groves  are." 


MOTHER   DOESN'T  WANT  ME. 

In  a  swimmin'?     I  don't  know 
Whether  I  had  best  to  go. 
Here's  a  dand'lion  let  me  blow 
And  see  if  mother  wants  me. 

Wait  a  little,  let  me  be. 
In  a  minute  I  will  see,  ' 

If  I  can  blow  it  oflf  at  three, 
Then  I  am  sure  she  wants  me. 

One,  good  rousing  pufT,  oh  my, 
See  the  downy  seed  wings  fly. 
Can't  do  better  if  I  try. 
Then  I'm  afraid  she  wants  me. 

Two,  and  nearly  all  are  gone; 
One  more  blow  and  then  I'm  done; 
If  I  do  it  then  I'll  run 
Home,  cause  mother  wants  me. 

Three,  and  that's  the  very  last. 
Still  some  seeds  are  sticking  fast; 
Guess  I'll  go  'f  I  didn't  ast. 
Cause  mother  doesn't  want  me. 


156  BABYLON 


FARMER   BLUE. 

A  very  good  neighbor  was  our  Farmer  Blue, 

And  a  very  fine  man,  as  everyone  knew; 

But,  would  you  believe  it?  every  one  said 

That  our  Farmer  Blue  was  always  afraid. 

Not  of  bad,  savage  beasts,  and  never  had  been, 

Nor  of  ugly,  or  fighting  or  blustering  men. 

The  forest  most  dark  had  no  terrors  for  him, 

And  'twas  he  that  talked  reason  to  Bitter  Creek  Jim. 

But  every  one  said,  and  it  was  quite  a  shock, 
(Specially  to  his  wife)  he  was  'fraid  of  his  stock. 

You  see,  Billy  Blue  was  a  cobbler  by  trade. 

And  had  left  the  old  farm  when  a  lusty  young  lad. 

But  a  tramp  came  along  one  cold  winter  day. 

And  he  hadn't  the  heart  to  turn  him  away. 

So  he  took  him  in  kindly  and  gave  him  the  best, 

A  strong  pair  of  shoes  and  a  good  coat  and  vest 

Mr.  Blue  in  his  kindness  thought  nothing  of  that, 
But  the  tramp,  it  seems  certain,  he  never  forgot. 
For  one  day,  ten  years  after,  or  possibly  more, 
A  lawyer  man  called  at  the  shoemaker's  door. 

"I've  a  will,"  said  the  lawyer,  "at  my  office  down  town, 
"In  which  you  arc  mentioned,  so  please  call  around." 
The  will  duly  read,  showed  Billy  the  heir 
To  a  beautiful  farm  worth  ten  thousand  or  more. 
"All  stocked  up,  with  buildings  and  everything  fine," 
Said  the  lawyer,  "and  better  than  any  gold  mine." 

The  tramp  had  gone  west,  and  in  Iowa  soil 
Had  delved  out  a  fortune  by  vigilent  toil. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  157 

But  the  seeds  of  disease  had  weakened  his  frame, 
And  dying  he  thought  of  good  Billy  Blue's  name. 
So  his  will,  when  'twas  read,  showed  that  everything 

went 
To  our  friend,  William  Blue,  of  Pawlet,  Vermont. 

The  question  which  rose  in  the  minds  of  the  Blues, 
When  sure  of  the  truth  of  the  wonderful  news, 
Was,  what  should  be  done  with  the  acres  out  west? 
Should  they  sell  them,  or  work  them,  or  what  would 
be  best? 

Billy's  wife  was  for  farming,  with  emphasis,  too, 
But  Billy  would  sell  them,  he  very  well  knew, 
And  build  them  a  house  and  keep  on  at  his  trade, 
For  to  "tackle"  new  business  he  felt  quite  afraid. 

But  his  wife  won  the  day  when  it  came  to  the  test, 
So  they  packed  up  their    goods    and    migrated    out 

west; 
And  this  is  the  story,  not  long,  but  quite  true, 
How  Billy  became  Farmer  William  J.  Blue. 

And,  sad  to  relate,  Mr.  Blue  was  afraid 

Of  the  stock  on  the  farm,    which    he    so  wished  to 

trade. 
Afraid  that  the  cows  would  hook  or  would  kick, 
And  his  horror  of  hogs  made  the  farmer  quite  sick. 

The  horses  were  terrors  he  hated  to  touch; 
They  knew  it,  and  kept  him  a  thinking  them  such. 
The  sheep  he  was  certain  would  bunt  him  in  two, 
And  near  them  he  never  knew  what  he  should  do. 

And  even  the  geese  he  watched  with  respect; 
Never  neared  an    old    hen,    but  he    feared    he'd  be 
pecked. 


158  BABYLON 

So  you  see  that  the  farm  was  no  paradise  fair, 
To  Billy,  whose  life  was  a  constant  nightmare. 

To  please  his  dear  wife  he  most  certainly  tried, 
But  try  all  he  would,  his  fear  would  not  hide, 
Though  she  laughed  at  his  fears  and  had  none  her- 
self. 
Still,  his  joy  was  all  gone,  laid  away  on  a  shelf. 

For  five  years  she  tried  to  make  out  of  him 
A  farmer,  but  failed  to  get  him  in  trim, 
1^0  at  last  she  gave  up  in  alarm  and  dispair, 
Determined  whatever  he  choose  she  would  share. 

The  farm  it  was  sold,  with  its  terrible  stock; 
With  the  money  a  pretty  town  cottage  they  bought; 
And  a  shop,  where  our  Billy  could  peg  at  his  shoes, 
With  nothing  to  frighten  or  give  him  the  blues. 

So  now,  when  you're  passing  along  on  the  street, 
You  will  hear  a  man's  whistle  quite  happy  complete. 
He  pegs,  sings  and  whistles  the  merry  hours  through. 
For  Billy  no  longer  is  scared  Farmer  Blue. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  1 59 


THE  GIRL  WHO  SWEEPS  MY  ROOM 

How  still  she  goes  about  the  house 
With  dusting  pan  and  pail  and  broom; 

She  steps  as  light  as  any  mouse, 
The  girl  who  sweeps  and  dusts  my  room. 

How  nice  she  is  with  couch  and  chair, 

How  careful  fixes  everything 
Just  as  it  was,  with  conscience  rare, 

Why  should  I  not  her  praises  sing? 

That  book  upon  the  writing  stand, 
The  lamp  and  matches,  pen  and  ink. 

Are  placed  again  by  her  deft  hand 
So  of  the  change  I'd  never  think. 

These  pictures  on  the  bureau  here, 

Just  as  I  leave  them  I  will  find; 
My  pen  and  paper,  never  fear, 

Will  never  feel  her  touches  kind. 
Or  if  they  do  no  one  would  know 

(Except  the  dust  was  brushed  away. 
And  all  her  task  completed  so) 

That  she'd  been  in  the  room  to-day. 

As  graceful  as  her  mountain  birch. 
Is  she  who  tidies  up  my  room; 

Her  quiet  face  (I  see  it  such) 
As  Norseland  flowers  in  Dovre  bloom. 

Her  brow,  as  open  highland  fjeld, 

And  nothing  hidden  there  can  be; 
No  truer  bosom  ever  swelled 


l6o  BABYLON 

Than  her's  who  sweeps  my  room  for  me. 
Her  eyes  as  blue  as  her  own  fjords, 

Which  nestle  deep  mid  Norway's  hills, 
I  cannot  picture  by  mere  words. 

My  pen,  at  best  but  poorly  tells. 

And  so  she  goes  about  the  house, 
With  dusting  pan  and  pail  and  broom. 

And  cheerful  all  her  duty  does — 
The  girl  who  dusts  and  sweeps  my  room. 


TWO  SPIRITS  WITHIN. 

"Two  spirits  struggle  within  you?"    What,  only  two? 
Well,  if  'twere  only  a  pair  to  conquer,  'twould  be 

quite  easy  to  do. 
But  when  it's  two  hundred  spirits  dancing  to  and  fro, 
You  find  yourself,  of  all  the  earth,  the  hardest  person 

to  know. 
Two    spirits    struggle   within    you;"    how    fortunate, 

indeed. 
You  must  find  yourself,  on  the  whole  of  earth's  shelf, 

the  easiest  book  to  read. 
For  them  you  have  two  hands  to  match,  two  feet  to 

flee  away, 
Two  ears  to  hear,  two  eyes  to  watch,  so  let  them 

enjoy  their  play. 

But,  alas  for  me!  with  my  two  hundred  struggling 

within; 
What  can  I  do  to  overcome  their  terrible  silent  din? 
A  harp  of  a  thousand  strings  am  I;  like  a  dry  leaf 

tossed  about. 
Now  tell  me,  how  will  ever  I  my  secret  self  find  out? 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  l6l 


HAPPY   IN    BLAINE. 

Oh,  a  happy  folk  are  we  in  Blaine, 
Mid  summer  sun  and  winter  rain; 
We  laugh  and  sing  as  the  days  go  by, 
And  our  bosoms  never  heave  a  sigh. 

Would  you  know  what  makes  us  free  from  care, 
And  every  day  in  the  whole  year  fair, 
And  our  hearts  as  light  as  they  can  be, 
And  our  forms  so  plump  and  round  to  see? 

It  is  because  the  hateful  form 
Of  hunger  never  threatens  harm, 
And  the  raving  wolf,  he  never  comes 
To  stand  before  our  happy  homes. 

Our  store  is  always  running  o'er, 
And  the  tide  goes  out  and  opens  the  door; 
Then  all  to  do  is  to  help  ourselves 
From  ofT  the  free  and  low-hung  shelves. 

There  tender  bivalves  rich  and  rare 

Send  fountains  spraying  high  in  air, 

And  the  huntsman  armed  with  spade  and  pail 

Knows  well  his  quest  will  never  fail. 

The  sideling  crab  shies  swift  away, 
In  the  sea  weed  meadow  at  his  play. 
The  flounder  skims  along  the  sands. 
And  comes  to  the  reach  of  eager  hands. 
The  sardine  swarms  and  the  salmon  leaps 
Above  the  halibut's  pasture  deeps. 
The  fisher  combs  the  willing  sea, 


l62  BABYLON 

And  knows  while  he  shakes  his  comb  that  he 
Will  have  by  night  his  boat  well  full, 
And  home  with  the  tide  he'll  gaily  pull. 

The  mighty  sturgeon  churns  the  sea, 

But  fried  in  his  own  rich  fat  will  be. 

The  tom  cod  glides  among  the  piles. 

Nor  heeds  the  fisher's  sleepy  wiles, 

And  comes  ashore  with  the  greatest  ease. 

In  companies  of  twos  and  threes. 

And  the  toothsome  smelt  with  rash  delight, 

Leaps  out  upon  the  dry  sands  quite. 

And  goes  to  the  seeker's  pail  aloft, 

Who  walks  in  the  autumn  sunlight  soft. 

And  so  I  say  to  you  again, 

That  we  are  happy  folks  in  Blaine, 

Nor  heed  the  toils  and  strifes  outside. 

While  we  watch  the  flow  of  our  teeming  tide. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  163 


NO   HOME. 

'A  home,  a  home,"  the  heart  of  man 
Craves  only  "give  to  me  a  home." 
To  seek  it  he  will  wander  far, 
And  over  all  creation  roam. 

Since  God  in  wrath  at  Babel's  tower 
Taught  him  the  folly  of  his  way. 

His  face  has  ever  more  been  turned 
Toward  the  glowing  close  of  day. 

Man  looks  upon  the  rising  sun, 
And  greets  the  morn  with  fresh  delight, 

But  hopes  to  lay  his  burdens  down, 
And  taste  the  comforts  of  the  night. 

And  so  his  gaze  he's  ever  cast 

In  search  of  comforts  peace  and  rest, 

Where  bright  hope's  finger  pointed  him, 
Toward  the  sunset-painted  west. 

He  trod  the  mountains  and  the  plains 
Until  he  reached  the  restless  sea, 

Then  wondered,  with  a  strange  unrest, 
What  secret  there  beyond  could  be. 

And  so  he  crossed  the  sighing  deep, 
And  sought  the  mists  of  other  shores. 

Among  the  new  world's  mysteries 
To  search  the  depth  of  hidden  stores. 

Forward  the  sunset's  magnet  draws 
Across  the  rivers,  hills  and  vales, 


l64  BABYLON 

And  yet,  in  longing  for  a  home 
He  still  attempts  but  always  fails. 

At  last  he  sees  the  hope  is  vain, 
"There  is  no  home,  alas,"  he  cries, 

(The  toil  is  all  without  reward) 
"Beneath  the  everlasting  skies." 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  165 


TME  RIDE  OF  FORTY-TWO. 

The  whole  world's  heard  of  the  wonderful  ride  of  bold 

Phil  Sheridan, 
And  Paul  Revere  and  his  midnight  flight  makes  the 

pulses  leap  again; 
And  how  the  wild  six  hundred  rode  into  the  jaws  of 

death— 
When   told   by   one   who    saw   the    deed,    makes   the 

listener  hold  his  breath. 

Those  deeds  were  grand  and  those  heroes  great  who 

rode  their  steeds  to  fame, 
But  I  will  write  on  the  page  to-day  another  hero's 

name; 
How  he  climbed  the  snowy  mountain  peaks  and  faced 

the  blizzard's  roar, 
To    save    for    the    glorious    flag    he    loved    the    ever 

vernal  shore. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  mighty  ride  that   Marcus 

Whitman  made? 
How  he  faced  death's  elements  alone  and  of  nothing 

seemed  afraid? 
How  he  sprang  into  the  saddle  on  that  frosty  autumn 

day, 
To  ride  to  the  nation's  capital,   four  thousand  miles 


Have  you  ever  heard  how  he  galloped  off  from  the 

shores  of  evergreen. 
To  the  lands  where  no  sheltering  mountain  peaks  the 

howling  blizzards  screen; 


l66  BABYLON 

Where  icy   streams   across   his   way   swept   dark  and 

threatening, 
While  his  good  steed  bore  him  forward  on  his  journey 

hastening? 

And  have  you  heard  of  the  faithful  hearts  who  fol- 
lowed his  return 

Across  the  barren  sand,  where  the  Western  deserts 
burn; 

Through  rugged  mountain  passes  to  the  stream  of 
Oregon, 

Where  the  turbulent  Pacific  wave  embraces  the  setting 
sun? 

Well,  so  it  was,  and  thus  I  sing  how  Marcus  Whitman 

pressed, 
Where  death  lurked  in  the  mountain  peaks  and  icy 

river's  breast; 
How  he  willingly  the  dangers  faced,  as  he  turned  from 

his  own  fireside, 
Into  the  blasts  of  winter  away  from  his  loving  bride. 

So   while   the   tales   of   daring    deeds    our   throbbing 

pulses  swell, 
We'll  think  of  the  ride  from  sea  to  sea  that  Whitman 

made  so  well; 
And  how  he  saved  to  the  starry  flag  the  land  of  the 

Chinook, 
With  a  bravery  that  none  can  tell  in  song  or  story 

book. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  167 


STRAY  SHEEP. 

Man  is  a  harp  of  a  thousand  strings. 
Woman  is  a  harp  of  ten  thousand  strings. 

*  *    * 

If  a  man  trusts  God  he  is  what  God  makes  him. 
If  a  man  does  not  trust  God  he  is  what  he  makes 

himself. 

*  *    * 

God's  poor  are  blessed. 
The  world's  poor  are  cursed. 

*  *    * 

My  dear,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  one's  soul  in  the 
touch  of  one's  hands. 

*  *    * 

How  much  like  angels  devils  act  sometimes. 

*  *    ♦ 

The  life  of  a  man  commences  at  marriage;  the  first 
ten  years  he  is  wedded  to  his  wife,  the  next  twenty  to 
his  children  and  to  his  business,  the  fourth  decade  to 
retrospect  and  the  fifth  to  life. 

*  *    * 

My  Epitaph — He  wrote  a  line  which  gave  birth  to 

a  thought. 

*  *    * 

Tis  better  to  have  lived  to  fall — 
To  rise  again — ^than  never  to  have  lived  at  all. 

*  ♦      4c 

Oft'  when  the  heart  is  most  full  the  pen  is  most 

empty. 

*  ♦    * 

He  is  truly  great  who  can  stand  the  test  of  pros- 
perity. 

*  *    * 

A   few  years   of  poverty   should   be   the   school   in 


l68  BABYLON 

which  we  are  fitted  for  either  earthly  or  eternal  pros- 
perity. 

*  *    * 

Never  let  your  own  physical  condition  govern  your 
behavior  toward  others. 

*  *    * 

God  has  so  arranged  it  that  he  who  leaves  ''foot- 
prints on  the  sands  of  time"  is  more  certain  to  leave 
footprints  on  the  golden  sands  of  eternity. 

*  *    * 

A  crafty  person  is  seldom  a  shrewd  one. 

*  *    * 

Dotards  boast  of  what  they  have  done;  fools  of  what 

they  intend  to  do. 

*  *    * 

'Tis  well  to  leave  some  "footprints  on  the  sands 

of  time"  to  prove 
That  our  lives  have  made   us  worthy  to   walk 
the  fields  above. 

*  *    * 

Never  tell  anything  but  the  truth,  but  do  not  always 

tell  the  truth. 

*  *    * 

Where  justice  rules  there  would  I  abide. 

*  *    * 

Never  play  with  fire  or  water.  If  your  companions 
play  with  fire  provide  yourself  with  a  blanket;  if  they 
play  with  water  get  out  of  the  boat  and  upon  the  land 

as  soon  as  possible. 

*  *    * 

Forget  about  yourself  as  much  as  possible. 

*  *    * 

He  was  a  good  fellow,  but  he  never  moved  so  fast 
as  he  did  on  the  day  of  his  funeral. 

*  *    * 

Oh,  for  the  day  when  doubt  shall  be  removed. 
And  sin  shall  be  abhorred  and  virtue  loved: 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  169 

When  God  in  power  shall  be  a  guide  indeed, 
And  each  his  loving  words  shall  ever  heed. 

*  *    * 

Love  in  me  is  justice  to  my  child.  Love  in  my 
child  is  obedience  to  me. 

Love  in  God  is  justice.  Love  in  God's  children  is 
obedience. — L  John  v.,  2-3. 

*  ♦  * 
Deceit,  thy  name  is  woman. 
Conceit,  thy  name  is  man. 

*  *    * 
Hope  looks  forward. 
Despair  looks  backward. 

*  *    * 

Stand  alone.  If  you  lean  against  something  you  are 
likely  to  defile  yourself,  for  even  whitewash  sumetimes 
rubs  off.  But  if  you  must  lean  on  something,  lean 
upon  God;  He  will  support  without  contaminating. 


lyo  BABYLON 


SNOQUALMIE. 

Oh,  come,  my  friend  and  follow  me 
Where  plays  the  stream  Snoqualmie, 
Where  o'er  the  cliflFs  the  waters  flow, 
Mad  leaping  to  the  rocks  below. 
And  snowy  mists  the  breezes  blow, 
Where  now  my  dreams  are  calling  me. 

Come  then,  my  friend  and  follow  me 

Where  plays  the  stream  Snoqualmie, 

So  great  its  noise  that  all  is  still 

In  vale  and  forest,  rock  and  hill. 

And  whirling  waters  drown  my  will. 

Where  now  my  dreams  are  calling  me. 

Come,  come,  my  friend,  and  follow  me 
Where  plays  the  stream  Snoqualmie, 
Its  raging  waters  madly  tossed. 
And  other  sounds  all  dead  and  lost. 
And  lips  give  but  a  sound  at  most. 
Where  now  my  dreams  are  calling  me. 

Then  come,  my  friend  and  follow  me 
Where  plays  the  stream  Snoqualmie, 
With  me  to-day  and  pass  an  hour. 
Lost  where  a  world  of  waters  roar 
As  plunging  from  the  rocks  they  pour, 
Where  now  my  dreams  are  calling  me. 

Oh,  come  then,  come  and  follow  me 

Where  plays  the  stream  Snoqualmie, 

Upon  the  bough  the  screeching  jay 

Is  like  to  drive  my  dreams  away, 

Unless  you  come  with  me  to-day 

Where  now  my  dreams  are  calling  me. 


Oh,  come,  my  friend,  and  follow  me 
■Where  plays  the  stream  Snoqualmle. 


172  BABYLON 


FRIENDS, 

(Dedicated  to  C.  W.  C.  and  G.  W.  C.) 

Our  friends  are  those  who  share  with  us 

The  bitter  and  the  sweet, 
Who  warmly  take  us  by  the  hand 

When  we  reverses  meet. 
They  are  the  ones  whose  hearts  are  warm 

Through  all   adversity; 
For  we  suffered  all  together 

In  the  crash  of  ninety-three. 

Prosperity  was  smiling  bright, 

We  all  enjoyed  her  cheer, 
And  thought  our  friends  were  plentiful, 

And  we  had  naught  to  fear; 
We  little  dreamed  in  those  old  days 

What  trials  there  should  be — 
That  many  would  not  stand  the  test 

In  the  crash  of  ninety-three. 

But  so  it  was,  and  those  we  thought 

Would  cling  through  thick  and  thin, 
Were  first  to  turn  their  backs  on  us 

When  trouble  had  begun. 
They  had  a  look  of  sadness  then 

Most  pitiful  to  see. 
And  blamed  their  neighbors  for  their  woes. 

In  the  crash  of  ninety-  three. 

But,  praise  the  Lord,  we  had  our  friends 
Who  took  things  as  they  came, 

And  when  the  storm  was  howling  round 
Proved  worthy  of  the  name; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  173 

Who  said,  while  warmly  clasping  hands, 

In  the  old  friendly  way: 
'We  suffered  all  together 

In  the  crash  of  ninety-three." 


174  BABYLON 


RIBES  SANGUINEUM. 

While  other  flowers  are  still  asleep, 

While  frost  is  on  the  rills, 
Sprinkled  among  the  evergreens, 

Glor>'  of  the  hills. 
Blushes  of  the  youngest  spring, 

Your  buds  are  bursting  green 
And  promising  to  clothe  the  earth 

The  fairest  ever  seen. 

No  fairer  flowers  adorn  the  wood, 

In  any  favored  spot, 
Than  our  own  bright  sanguineum, 

With  blushing  blooms,  I  wot. 
It  brightens  up  each  shadowy  nook; 

It  clothes  the  sunny  hills 
With  varigated  blushing  pink, 

Each  heart  with  pleasure  fills. 

First  offering  of  gentle  spring, 

Bestowed  with  lavish  hand. 
Makes  brave  the  other  flowers  to  come, 

And  helps  to  cheer  the  land. 
Your  bright  racemes  of  blushing  stars 

Have  all  a  beauty  rare. 
Vivid   and   soft  and   delicate, 

And  perfect  as  you  are. 

And  so  we  sing  a  song  to  you. 

Our  bright  sanguineum. 
For  when   we   see  your   blushes   rare 

We  know  that  spring  has  come. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  1 75 


SELLING  THE  WEE  ONE'S  PETS. 

There,  they've  taken  them  off — 
All  my  beautiful  hens; 

There's  Brindle,  and  Top- Knot  and  Gray. 
And  their  nice  little  feet 
All  tied  with  old  strings 

Just  to  keep  them  from  flying  away. 

And  now  they  can't  scratch 
Any  more  in  the  yard — 

Oh,  dear,  mama,   what  will   we  do? 
And   Brindle  won't  come 
Through  the  back  kitchen  door 

And  scamper  about  when  I   shoo. 

She  had  tears  in  her  eyes — 
They  tumbled  her  so — 

Be  careful!     They  just  didn't  try. 
And  now  I  am  so  mad 
'Cause  they  acted  so  bad, 

That,  mama,  I  b'lieve  I  could  cry: 

Do  you  think  I  want  Twiggs? 
No,  he's  only  a  cat. 

I   want  back   my  chickens  theirself; 
And  I  don't  like  the  cat. 
Oh,  take  him  away — 

He'll  be  sure  to  climb  up  on  the  shelf. 

And  you  think  they'll  be  good 
To  my  Top-Knot  and   Speck? 

Well,  I  don't;  they  acted  so  rough. 
And    they   made    Brindle    squall 


176  BABYLON 

When  they  pulled  her  about — 
And  don't  you  think  that  was  enough? 

Yes,  and  I  want  them  all. 
No,  just  one  ain't  enough. 

For  she  would  be  lonesome  and  sad. 
Bring  back  every  one, 
(But  now  I'll  be  still). 

If  you  do  I'll  be  awfully  glad. 

There  she  lies  on  the  floor, 
Mamma's  prop'd  up  her  head. 

All  forgotten  her  chickens  so  dear. 
In  the  midst  of  her  grief 
She  has  fallen  asleep — 

On  her  cheek  there's  but  one  little  tear. 


Reveille  Island,  Lake  "Whatcom. 


178  BABYLON 

The  lilly,  in  the  summer  sun, 
Looks  upward  with  its  yellow  eyes. 

The  blue  kingfisher  perching  low 
Heeds  watchfully  the  minnows  play. 

Then  darting  to  the  limpid  depths 
With  screech  of  triumph  is  away. 

The  mountains,  sky  and  silent  moon 
Are  pictured  softly  in  my  lake; 

All  silent  float  across  my  view 
As  I  their  beauties  there  partake. 

A  ruthless  breeze  breaks  on  the  scene. 
And  with  its  rude  encircling  arms 

Forecasts  the  day  when  human  hands 
Will  rob  my  lake  of  half  its  charms. 


AND  OTHSU  POBMS.  17^ 


MY  BIGYGLE. 

It  seems  to  me  no  bird  could  be 

More  light  than  I  to-day, 
While  mounted  on  my  flying  wheel 

I  swiftly  skim  away. 

Some  pinioned  soul  has  winged  itself 

Into  my  bounding  heart, 
For  flying  to  my  farthest  veins 

My  blood  does  leap  and  start. 

I  feel,  as  tree  and  glade  and  glen 

Go  gliding  swiftly  by, 
With  but  a  pair  of  feathered  wings 

I'd  soar  up  to  the  sky. 

I  lend  my  power  unto  my  wheel 

It  pays  me  in  delight, 
And  thus  together  swift  we  go 

From  morning  until  night. 

I'm  free,  free,  free  from  all  the  cares 

Of  plodding  human  flesh. 
As  I  upon  my  bicycle 

Sweep  forward  as  I  wish. 

To  sail  in  boat  across  the  wave 

Seems  imbecilic  sport, 
And  of  the  silent,  sweeping  wheel 

It  comes  supremely  short. 

To  carriage  ride  is  lazy  joy 
With  independence  gone, 


l8o  BABYLON 

And  by  a  sweating  panting  steed 
Its  comfort  must  be  won. 

The  orasman  is  a  plodder  slow 
Upon  the  rushing  stream, 

A  plunge  into  the  aqueous  flood 
May  dampen  all  his  dream. 

A  weary,  crawling,  crushed  snail 

Is  the  pedestrian. 
Who  slowly  measures  off  the  space 

In  the  old  fashioned  plan. 

The  steamboat  and  the  railway  cars 
Are  but  a  weary  mode 

To  locomote  about  the  world. 
Their  joys  are  but  a  load. 

Oh  give  to  me  my  willing  wheel, 
Its  soft  pneumatic  tires. 

Kindle  within  my  bounding  heart 
Heaven's  ethereal  fires. 

It  has  within  its  quivering  frame 
And  swiftly  turning  wheel 

The  essence  of  all  earthly  joys. 
That  mortal  man  can  feel. 


What  is  trouble? 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  l8l 


TROUBLE. 

'What  is  trouble?"  she  asked  me, 

My  four-year-old  daughter  Ruth, 
As  she  sat  by  the  fire  in  a  study  brown — 
This  youthful  seeker  for  truth. 

I  thought  with  grown-up  thoughts  as  I  looked 

At  the  tattered  shoes  and  gown, 
'If  you  do  not  know  what  trouble  is 
"No  little  one  knows  in  town." 

Then  I  thought  again,  beyond  the  clothes, 

But  I  did  not  answer  her, 
(For  she  was  fast  asleep  just  then) 
"Trouble  is  sin,  my  dear." 

Then  I  thank  thee,  Heavenly  Father, 

My  little  one's  heart  is  free 
From  knowledge  of  that  which  curses  man, 

And  keeps  them  away  from  Thee. 


l82  BABYLON 


MY  SPELLING  BOOK. 

I  have  the  queerest  spelling  book 

That  ever  you  did  see; 
It  wouldn't  do  for  every  one. 

But  answers  well  for  me. 

Mine's  not  like  other  spelling  books, 
Though  it  is  bound  in  cloth; 

It's  not  a  dictionary, 
But  still  it  does  for  both. 

Its  leaves  are  pink,  and  when  I  wish 

They  open  wide  for  me; 
When  moistened  by  my  lips 

They  yield  correct  orthography 

When  I  get  mixed  on  e's  and  i's 

And  would  put  s  for  c, 
I  only  need  to  call  on  it, 
It  spells  the  words  for  me. 

And  so  it  is  with  c  and  k 

And  1  and  11; 
The  combinations  I  don't  know 

My  little  book  can  tell. 

And  k  for  c  and  a  for  o 

And  w  and  u, 
No  matter  what  the  trouble  is. 

It  straightens  them  out  true. 

My  speller  is  a  roly-poly 
Book  of  pink  and  white; 


AND  OTHKR  POEMS.  183 

Its  covers  are  of  rich,  rich  brown, 
Its  top  as  black  as  night 

And  strange  to  say  my  little  book 

Can  think  as  well  as  walk. 
I  only  have  to  treat  it  right  ■ 

To  hear  it  laugh  and  talk. 

Oh,  how  I  miss  my  little  book 

When  I  sit  up  to  write, 
What  with  vowels  and  diphthongs 

I  am  distracted  quite. 

I  could  not  more  distressful  feel 

Nor  tangled  up  could  be, 
Than  when  I'm  from  my  spelling  book, 

Or  she's  away  from  me. 


I&l  BABYLON 


MARGUERITE  SNOW. 

I  will  tell  you  a  story  of  long  ago, 

Of  my  sweetheart,  little  Marguerite  Snow. 

We  played  on  the  sands  by  the  wide,  wide  sea. 

And  I  loved  her  and  she  loved  me, 

And  we  were  as  happy  as  we  could  be. 

My  Marguerite's  eyes  were  very  bright, 
And  her  cheeks  were  always  pink  and  white; 
Her  breath  was  like  a  baby's  sweet. 
And  I  thought  she  had  the  prettiest  feet. 
And  our  happiness  was  quite  complete, 

Her  hair  was  black  as  a  charcoal  pit, 

And  she  used  to  let  me  fondle  it. 

Her  lips  were  pink  and  her  teeth  were  pearls. 

And  they  looked  like  buds  beneath  her  curls; 

And  she  was  the  fairest  of  all  the  girls. 

Her  dainty  chin  was  my  delight. 

And  her  hands  (as  soft  as  baby's,  quite) 

Were  the  first  to  soothe  my  aches  and  pains 

And  to  wash  away  my  crimson  stains. 

And  wipe  from  my  eyes  the  tear-drop  rains. 

And  so  we  played  by  the  ocean  wave, 
I  thought  her  fair  and  she  thought  me  brave; 
And  we  never  dreamed  that  anything 
Could  cloud  our  love  like  a  day  in  spring. 
Or  set  our  affections  wandering. 

But  that  was  oh,  so  long  ago, 

We  played  in  the  sands  in  the  summer  glow; 


I  will  tell  you  a  story  of  long*  ago, 

Of  my  sweetheart,  little  Marguerite  Snow. 


AND  OTHER  POBMS.  1Q5 

A  boat  was  tied  by  the  sea  that  day, 

And  in  it  I  drifted  far  away 

From  her  side  forever  and  ever  to  stay. 

An  ocean  of  years  is  rolling  now 
Between  me  and  my  Marguerite  Snow, 
But  its  easy  to  cross  with  memory, 
For  I  loved  her  and  she  loved  me. 
In  those  old  days  by  the  blue,  blue  sea. 


lS6  BABYLON 


TME^EUERGREEN  SHORE. 

Oh,  come,  my  daughter,  come  with  me,  to  the  coasts 

of  evergreen; 
Where  the  broad  Pacific  laves  the  shore,  and  the  tall 

white  ships  are  seen. 
Where  snow-capped  mountains  pierce  the  skies  by  the 

side  of  crystal  lakes, 
And    the  wind    among  the    balsam    boughs    celestial 

music  makes. 
Where  the  gold  and  silver    mountains    ring  with  the 

miner's  pick  and  spade. 
And  the  water  fowl  skims  on  the  lake  and  the  deer 

leaps  in  the  glade. 

Oh,    come  where    Puget  Sound  winds    in    among    a 

thousand  isles, 
Where  cots  and  villages  nestling  stand,  and  bounteous 

nature  smiles. 
Where  the  tall  fir  trees  make  green  the  tide  as  it  ebbs 

among  the  hills. 
And  mountain  lakes  pour  out  their  floods  in  a  hundred 

tumbling  rills. 
Where  cities  fair  with  their  hum  and  stir  beside  their 

busy  bays. 
Send  out  their  ships  with  steam  and  sail  in  many  ocean 

ways. 

Oh,  come  to  the  fields  of  Washington,  where  grows 

the  golden  wheat, 
And  where  in  the  iron  mountain's  breast  the  coal  rests 

'neath  our  feet; 
And  the  sawmills  hum  and    the    canners  come    with 

their  treasures  of  the  deep. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  '1^7 

And  the  soft  winds  in  the  evcrgfreens  sing,  lulling  us 
to  sleep. 

Oh,  come  where  the  sun  bathes  in  the  west  when  the 

daylight  hours  grow  late; 
Where  the  lion  of  the  sea  basks  warm  by  the  side  of 

the  Golden  Gate. 
And  the  gray  gulls  scream  in  mad  delight  as  the  ocean 

ships  go  out, 
At  their  table  spread  with  lavish  hand  on  the  evening 

waves  about. 

Oh,  come  where  the  salmon    leaps    with    glee  in  the 

glorious  summer  sun, 
And  flashes  his  silver  armor  bright  in  the  vigor  of  his 

fun. 
Where  the  halibut  in  the  peaceful  calm  of  his  ocean 

pasture  deep, 
Jerks  taught  the  line  of  the  fisherman  with  the  vim  of 

his  mighty  leap. 

Oh,  come  where  the  palm  trees  fringe  the  shores  of 

the  mighty  Golden  State, 
And  the  grapes  and  oranges  hang  rich  and  the  hungry 

pickers  wait. 
Or  where  the  walrus  churns  the    sea    and    blows  his 

trumpet  loud, 
While  the  bright-eyed,    furry-coated    seal  the  Alaska 

islands  crowd. 
Or  Mt.  St.  Elias'  towering  peak  is  mirrored  in  the  sea 
Where  the  mighty  whale  makes  the  ocean  boil  like  a 

monster  pot  of  tea. 
Where  the  icebergs  float  on    the    Arctic  stream,  like 

crystal  mountains  bright. 
Or  mighty  ghosts  with    silent    tread    g^ide  by  in  the 

misty  night. 


l88  BABYLON 

Come  where  the  stream  of  Oregon  from  the  mighty 

mountains  flows, 
Among  the  fields  and  happy  homes  where  the  prune 

and  apple  grows, 
And  where  the  grain  and  grass  grow  high  by  the  side 

of  the  winding  stream, 
And  in  their  plenteous  comfort  there  the  sheep  and 

cattle  dream. 
Or  where  the  mighty  Columbia  pours  out  its  mountain 

flood. 
To    buffet  back    with  sweeping    hands    the    foaming 

ocean  rude. 

Oh,  come  with  me  to    the    gladsome    isle  where  the 

royal  city  stands, 
Or  where  the  Frazer  river  flows  down  over  its  golden 

sands, 
Where  the  Union  Jack  floats    over   fields    as  rich  as 

Eden  was; 
And  offers,  free  from  disease  and  woe,  an  enchanted 

home  to  us. 

Oh,  come,  come,  come,  my  daughter,  dear,  to  the 
coasts  of  evergreen, 

Where  Nature  fair  the  whole  year  through  in  a  ver- 
dant robe  is  seen; 

And  the  soft  Chinook  with  gentle  touch  comes  out  of 
the  warm  southwest 

And  draws  for  all  a  rich  supply  from  Nature's  boun- 
teous breast. 

Oh,  come,  then,  come,  and  make  our  home  where  a 

soft  and  gentle  clime 
Makes  the  blood  glide  smoothly  through  ones  veins 

and  the  pulses  beat  in  time; 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


189 


Where  everything  makes  glad  the  heart  and  rests  the 

weary  eye, 
And  we  can  live  in  joy  and  peace  while  the  happy  days 

go  by. 


190  BABYLON 


THE  MOMESIGK  PROSPECTOR. 

Oh,  lady  of  the  Golden  State, 

With  kindness  smiling  in  your  face; 
With  eye  of  blue  and  form  of  grace, 

Can  I  forget  though  frowning  fate 
Has  lead  me  far,  oh,  far  away? 

Can  I  forget  the  cooling  cup 

You  gave  me  on  that  weary  day, 
I  plodded  lone  along  the  way? 

My  lips  were  longing  for  the  sup, 
A  little  deed  not  soon  forgot. 

The  way  has  long  and  weary  been, 
I  sought  thy  bars  Mokelumne, 
Or  washed  the  sands  of  Tuelumne, 

I've  many  lonely  moments  seen. 

Far  from  thy  shores  of  evergreen. 

The  world  is  all  a  snowdrift  here; 
From  Tia  Juana,  San  Joaquin, 
Or  Mono  I  shall  never  wean, 

Tulare,  Tule  all,  all  are  dear, 

In  this  snow  bound  New  England  home. 

Why  did  the  old  man  ever  roam 
(Oh,  fair  Kaweah  and  Tahoe) 
From  evergreen  to  endless  snow. 

Thus  backward  from  his  sunset  home. 
To  pine  unceasingly  for  thee? 

Life  will  a  salty  pillar  be, 

Chehalem,  Klamath,  Coquille, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I9I 

Labish,  Umpqu^  and  Owyhee 
And  Walla  Walla,  Nestache, 

For  the  old  man  so  far  away. 

Sylvan  Shannitch  and  Wapato, 

Chehalis  and  fair  Pen  d'Oreille, 
That  I  from  thee  so  far  should  stray, 

Where  thunders  roll  and  cyclones  blow; 
The  old  man  will  be  back  again. 

Multnomah,  Samish,  Yakima, 

Doswallips,  tumbling  Quillaute, 
None  shall  my  love  for  thee  dispute. 

Whatcom,  Chelan  and  Willapa, 

Thy  placid  bosoms  I  would  float. 

Nicola,  Tumtum,  Chilukweyuk, 

Stikine  and  Illecillewaet, 

Skeena,  Sumas  and  Lillooet, 
Once  more  I'd  bend  my  winding  track 

To  thee  for  yellow  hidden  dust. 

Even  Alaska's  far  Yukon, 

Winding  Kowak  or  cold  Naatak, 
Or  blue  and  sleeping  Nushagak, 

Were  fairer  than  the  frozen  sun 

Which  shivers  o'er  this  world  of  snow. 

The  old  homestead  is  not  the  same. 

About  it  nothing  quite  so  dear 

As  the  warm  hearts  who  brought  me  here; 
Nothing  familiar  but  the  name. 

With  fifty  years  on  me  and  it. 

Love  cannot  drive  the  gloom  away, 
I  long  to  hear  the  breaker's  roar 


192  BABYLON 

Upon  the  ever  vernal  shore; 
The  afternoon  of  life  I'd  stay 

Where  gently  blows  the  soft  Chinook. 

I  long  thy  mountains  near  to  be, 

Where  wind  their  deep  and  dreamy  shades. 

Sierra  Nevadas  and  Cascades, 
Shining  in  glittering  sheen  for  me, 

A  wall  'gainst  predatory  frosts. 

I'm  coming,  coasts  of  evergreen, 
Prepare  my  cabin  by  the  bay, 
Where  leaps  the  salmon  in  his  play; 

Nieces  and  nephews  cannot  wean; 

By  thee  the  old  man's  dust  shall  lie. 


Oh.  the  roses  of  Tacoma. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  1 93 


*THE   ROSES  OF  TAGOMA. 

Oh,  the  roses  of  Tacoma,  how  they  glorify  the  hills; 
How  their  fragrant  breath  ascending  the  very  ether 

fills; 
How  the  Junetime  speaks  in  accents  pink  and  white 

and  blush  and  cream. 
While  the  air  is    fraught    with    incense  like  a  sweet 

Elysian  dream. 

Oh,  the  roses  of  Tacoma,  how  they  grace  the  sombre 

walls; 
How  they  cling  about  the  porches  where  the  wooing 

hammock  calls; 
How  the  petals  falling,  falling  with  the  glowing  tints 

of  dawn. 
And  in  waxen  colors  spattered  paint  the  pallette  of  the 

lawn. 

Oh,  the  roses  of  Tacoma,  how  their  damask  blushes 
woo, 

While  the  lazy  laden  zephyrs  mid  their  bowers  are 
creeping  through. 

Stealing  here  and  there  while  wandering  an  attar- 
scented  kiss, 

Which  whispers  where  the  zephyrs  go  of  ecstasy  of 
bliss. 

Oh,  the  roses  of  Tacoma,  moist  with  dew  at  early 
mom. 


*What  is  said  of  the  roses  of  Tacoma  may  as  truthfully  be  said 
of  the  roses  of  Victoria,  Seattle,  or  any  other  Pacific  Coast  city. 
The  Evergreen  Shore  is  a  land  of  roses  from  June  to  January. 


194  BABYLON 

Culled  by  dainty  waxen  fingers  some  soft  corsage  to 

adorn; 
There  conspiring  with  the  glowing  of  fair  cheeks  to 

overthrow 
Slaves,  who,  with  their  senses  raptured,  to  the  meshes 

willing  go. 

Oh,  the  roses  of  Tacoma,  sweet  physicians  they  have 
come 

To  the  bedside  of  the  weary,  in  the  wards,  from  friends 
and  home; 

Loaning  to  wan  cheeks  their  blushes,  bringing  sun- 
light to  the  eye. 

And  in  accents  soft,  refreshing,  bid  disease  and  death 
to  fly. 

Oh,  the  roses  of  Tacoma,  in  their  arbors  of  delight, 
How  they  paint  the  day  with  blushes  and  perfume  the 

sleeping  night. 
Till  the  world  a  bed  of  roses  with  its  witching  odors 

seems. 
And  their  blushes  and  their  fragrance  fill  the  sleep  and 

waking  dreams. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  I95 


UPS  AND   DOWNS. 

Life  is  a  teeter,  up  and  down  we  go; 

However  skyward  we  ascend  we  must  come  down,  we 
know; 

And  so  it  is,  with  ups  and  downs  we  with  our  neigh- 
bors share: 

First  lightly  floating  up  with  joy,  then  burdened  down 
with  care. 

When  he  is  up  then  we  are  down  and  vice  versa  he; 
Continually  in  upper  air  no  one  can  hope  to  be. 
Our  neighbor  sinking  brings  us  up,  he  rising  brings 

us  down, 
While  we  can  never  rise    again  until    we    strike    the 

ground. 

And  so,  while  we  are  mixing  up  the  sadness  with  the 

joy 
We  should  not  let  our   sinking   hopes    our  happiness 

destroy, 
But  gather  in  our  settling  feet  the  strength  we  have  to 

spare; 
Then  when  we  strike  the  ground  a  push  will  lift  us  in 

the  air. 


196  BABYLON 


HOW  THE  GRANDMAS  GOT  IN. 

It  was  late  one  day  when  the  grandmas  tried 
At  heaven's  gate  to  get  inside; 
They  hadn't  the  least  idea  that  they 
Would  be  asked  outside  of  Paradise  to  stay, 
But  Peter  was  gone  to  bathe  his  wings 
In  the  sea  of  glass,  and  other  things. 
And  had  left  an  angel,  maybe  John, 
Or  Lot,  or  Isaac,  or  some  other  one, 
To  tend  the  gate  while  he  was  away. 
And  Ruth,  with  the  baby  angels  at  play, 
Was  so  busy  of  course  she  couldn't  know 
What  was  going  on  at  the  gates  below. 

Well,  strange  to  tell,  and  sad,  though  true, 
The  angel  wouldn't  let  the  grandmas  through. 
And  told  them  that  they  must  stay  outside 
(Though  some  of  them  sat  right  down  and  cried) 
Until  he  found  if  the  things  were  true 
He  had  heard  of  them  from  one  or  two. 
He  said  there  were  some  in  heaven  that  day 
Who  had  almost  been  obliged  to  stay 
Outside  the  pearly  gates,  because 
Of  something  they  had  done  that  was 
Just  brought  about  by  these  grandmas. 

The  cases  the  angels  had  in  mind 

Where  something  like  these,  when  he  went  to  find 

The  ones  who  had  almost  been  too  bad 

To  get  inside,  and  it  made  him  sad. 

There  was  angel  Tom,  who  grandmama 

Had  hid  in  her  room  away  from  ma. 

Who  was  after  him  with  a  slipper  shoe, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  197 

For  telling  a  story  that  wasn't  true; 

Then  there  was  pretty  angel  Nell, 

Who  was  naughty  and  wouldn't  take  her  pill, 

And  grandma,  meaning  well  enough. 

Said  "grandma's  pet  shan't  take  the  stuff." 


Besides  there  were  many  other  things 
Which  had  come  to  heaven  on  angels'  wings, 
Of  how  the  grandmamas  had  spoiled 
And  "cruel"  papas  and  mammas  foiled, 
Until  some  of  the  children  had  almost  gone 
To  the  bad  for  wicked  things  they'd  done, 
When  a  little  correcting  would  have  kept 
From  sins  for  which  their  parents  wept. 

Well,  while  the  grandmas  sat  and  cried, 
A  little  kind  angel  peeped  down  and  spied 
The  white  heads,  bent  in  trembling  grief, 
With  no  one  to  come  to  their  relief. 
And  when  he  saw  their  cheeks  were  wet, 
His  own  grandma  he  couldn't  forget. 
And  quietly  he  slipped  away, 
To  Ruth  and  the  little  ones  at  play. 

Sweet  Ruth  listened  with  surprise, 
When  she  saw  the  tear  drops  in  his  eyes, 
Then  quickly  to  the  portals  went, 
And  over  the  jasper  capstones  bent, 
And  looking  to  the  ground  below. 
Saw  the  heads  bowed  down  as  white  as  snow. 
Her  voice  was  very  soft  and  sad. 
As  she  whispered,  "oh,  too  bad,  too  bad! 
"They  never  could  have  known  'twas  wrong, 
"They  were  so  old  and  loved  so  strong." 


198  BABYLON 

Then  the  children  angels  each  begin: 
"They're  grandmamas !  do  let  them  in!" 
And  Ruth,  with  warm  and  throbbing  heart, 
Slipped  the  bars  and  bolts  of  the  gate  apart, 
While  the  little  ones  gathered  round  in  glee, 
With  joy  their  kindly  smiles  to  see. 
And  thus  they  lead  the  grandmas  through 
Into  Paradise,  where  the  skies  are  blue. 
And  John  and  Isaac  they  never  knew. 


And  when  Peter  found  what  Ruth  had  done, 
He  said  he  wouldn't  have  kept  out  one; 
And  again,  when  he  laid  the  key  on  the  shelf: 
*I  had  a  dear  grandma  myself." 
While  every  one  sang,  it  was  plain  to  see 
That  they  were  happy  as  they  could  be 
To  welcome  the  grandmamas  inside. 
And  not  one  tried  his  delight  to  hide. 
And  that  was  the  way,  though  it  was  quite  late. 
That  the  grandmas  got  through  the  pearly  gate. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  199 


ROSES  IN  THE   PATH. 

The  maiden  fair  with  the  golden  hair, 

When  she  threw  her  roses  away, 
With  her  princess  air  and  her  raiment  rare, 

Had  never  a  thought  to-day 
(As  the  buds  and  blossoms,  drooping  low, 

By  the  dusty  pathway  fell) 
That  they,  with  their  blushes  from  above. 

Sweet  joy  to  a  heart  would  tell. 

But  so  it  was,  and  my  little  room, 

With  their  royal  glow  grew  bright, 
While  they,  thirsty,  supped  from  my  drinking  cup, 

And  bloomed  for  my  delight. 
For  a  happy  week  I  tended  them. 

And  dreamed,  while  I  gazed  with  joy, 
That  my  little  room  in  the  noisy  flat 

Was  some  palace  far  away. 

And  the  maiden  fair  with  the  golden  hair 

Passed  on  and  never  dreamed 
That  for  her  rejected  flowers  to-day 

A  life  far  brighter  seemed. 
But  I  thought  when  I  gathered  them  from  the  dust. 

There  are  joys  in  every  day, 
And  happy  are  we  if  we  find  delight 

In  what  others  throw  away. 


3dO  BABYLON 


*GAPILANO. 


Oh  Capilano,  how  I  sigh 
For  thee,  my  mountain  stream, 

While  on  these  burning  sands  I  lie, 
And  of  thy  fountains  dream. 

Lost  in  the  desert  wandering. 

No  sheltering  shadow  nigh, 
With  parched  lips  and  fevered  brain, 

I  feel  that  I  must  die. 

So  as  the  bloody  sunlight  glares 

Across  the  desert  waste, 
And  drifts  below  the  glittering  sands, 

I  long  of  thee  to  taste. 

And  as  I  lie  my  body  down, 

To  toss  in  troubled  sleep, 
I  dream  of  gray  and  moss  grown  rocks, 

Down  which  thy  waters  leap. 

I  dream  of  shadows  dense  and  deep 

Beneath  the  evergreens. 
Where,  gazing  in  thy  looking  glass. 

The  partridge  dips  and  preenes, 
While  waiting  for  her  mate  who  drums 

Upon  the  mossy  trunk 
A  challenge  to  his  feathery  foe. 

While  he  with  love  is  drunk. 


*The  stream  from  which  the  oity  of  Vancouver,  B.  C,  takes 
its  water. 


AND  OTHER  POBMS.  20I 

I  dream,  while  stretched  upon  the  sands 

And  seeking  fevered  rest, 
Of  where  thy  bubbling  springs  burst  from 

The  mountain's  icy  breast, 
Of  where  the  sunbeams  chase  the  snows 

From  off  the  rugged  peaks, 
Down  where  thy  brawling  tumbling  stream 

The  deepest  shadow  seeks. 

I  wake,  the  sun  creeps  threatening  up 

From  out  its  sandy  bed, 
And  with  the  night,  I  find  my  dreams 

Of  Capilano  fled. 
But  still  I  waking  dream  of  thee, 

While  through  the  sands  I  wade, 
And  seek,  with  burning,  quivering  eyes 

The  green  oasis  shade. 

And  even  though  I  sit  beneath 

The  palm  trees'  sheltering  boughs. 
My  thought  leaps  up,  and  o'er  the  sea 

To  Capilano  goes. 
And  there  would  I  with  ecstasy 

Fly  with  my  wooing  dream, 
To  where  the  gushing  fountain  plays 

From  Capilano's  stream. 


202  BABYLON 


THE  NEW  HOUSE. 

I  hate  you  and  all  your  polished  walls 
And  massive  doors  of  precious  woods. 
There  is  only  one  redeeming  feature  in  you, 
With  all  your  glittering,  glaring  elegance. 
And  that  a  whispering,  longing  thought  of  her 
For  whom  I  dreamed  to  raise  your  massive  domes. 
The  funeral  silence  of  your  mossy  carpets 
Makes  my  heart  as  chill  as  your  cold  stones; 
As  sad  I  wander  up  and  down  your  halls  alone; 
For  she  is  gone  and  earth  and  you  and  I  are  empty. 

I  brought  her  yonder  where  the  elm  tree  droops. 

She  planted  with  her  own  dear  hands 

So  long  ago;  and  roses  bloomed  on  face  and  field; 

And  sushine  shone  in  heaven  and  eye, 

And  brightened  everthing  with  hope  and  joy. 

The  mossy  cabin  she  delighted  in. 

The  forest  shades  of  green  and  gray  beyond, 

Even  the  toil  of  clearing  off  the  massive  trees 

Was  entertaining,  and  to  her  had  its  delight. 

Her  dimpled  hands  and  face  were  often  painted 

With  the  char  of  sticks  she  piled  upon 

The  glowing  fires,  which  ate  the  shade  away 

And  let  the  hoe  and  sunlight  to  the  willing  soil. 

The  busy  years  flew  by,  the  "old  house"  stood 

Where  once  the  cabin's  mossy  logs  were  piled. 

Her  elm  tree  shaded  round  the  porch, 

And  children  played  and  sang  about  the  place, 

Still,  she  was  e'er  the  faithful  guardian, 

And  when  the  calls  of  business  took  me  far  away, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  203 

She  bore  the  burdens  of  the  home  alone, 

And  life  more  full  of  toil  and  cares 

Than  what  the  world  calls  pleasures, 

She  lived  through  all  the  years  with  few  complaints. 

Her  girlhood  feet  had  pressed  the  velvet. 

And  frescoed  walls  had  looked  upon  her  then, 

But  now  the  garden  soil  clung  to  her  dainty  shoes. 

Her  little  hands  were  not  as  soft  as  when 

They  handled  only  cunning  needle  work  or  lace. 

Necessity,  that  thorough  but  mysterious  teacher. 

Drew  his  impassable  lines  about  her  home, 

And  made  a  world  of  it,  at  least  for  her. 

The  moments  passed,  and  while  I  dreamed, 
The  hand  of  Time  sprinkled  the  frosts  of  years 
Upon  my  head,  and  to  my  joints  poured  in 
The  curdled  oil  of  age  with  stealthy  hand. 
Deceiving  me,  he  kept  her  just  as  fair. 
Nor  meddled  with  her  velvet  face  or  hair. 
The  only  sign  she  gave  that  time  or  toil  or  care 
Had  touched  her,  was  now  and  then  a  sigh. 

Frowning  adversity  had  meek  submission  taught; 

And  then  upon  us  smiled  one  day  prosperity. 

The  old  house  'neath  the  elm  tree's  spreading  shade 

(When  I  upon  our  new  good  fortune  thought) 

Seemed  mean  and  poor  and  cramped. 

And  then  I  thought  to  rear  a  home  for  her 

More  like  the  one  she  left  to  come  to  me. 

She  said,  when  I  the  subject  broached  to  her: 
"We  have  been  happy  here,  the  place  is  dear, 
"And  here  the  children  have  around  us  grown 
"To  men  and  women,  and  gone  out 
"The  world  to  see,  and  this  to  them  is  home." 

But  still,  I  thought  I  did  it  all  for  her. 

And  so  your  towers  and  pillars  grew. 


204  BABYLON 

And  you,  new  house,  were  thus  completed. 

The  upholsterer  and  the  cabinet  maker  came, 

And  artists  hung  your  frescoed  walls 

With  bits  of  silent  nature  face  and  form. 

We  walked  about  your  halls  and  stairways 

Like  children  lost  in  some  strange  wilderness, 

Until  one  day  she  tired  grew  and  pale 

And  lay  her  down  to  rest,  but  not  in  thee,  new  house, 

For  with  a  weary  smile  she  asked  me 

To  carry  her  to  her  own  little  room. 

Where  in  the  elm  tree  she  could  hear  the  robin  sing. 

We  bore  her  gently  home  across  the  field 
And  left  you  here,  a  monument  to  pride. 
"Oh,  I  am  tired,  and  just  want  to  rest," 
She  said,  when  we,  with  sadly  bending  heads 
Inquired  what  we  could  do  for  her. 
And  so  she  went  to  sleep  in  her  own  little  room. 
To  never  more  behold  the  marble  halls 
I  built  for  her  when  she  had  worn  her  life  away. 
And  when  I  knew  that  we  could  never  wake  her 
It  came  to  me  how  void  of  recreations 
And  how  circumscribed  her  life  had  been. 
And  then  a  thought  of  bitterness  came  in; 
That  she  had  never  been  rewarded  for  her  cares. 
And  had  been  snatched  away  from  tardy  joys. 
Which  came  too  late  to  cheer  the  life 
Which  she  had  spent  for  others'  comforts. 

Defrauded,  all  her  life  of  cheering  recreations, 

And  filled  her  world  with  sacrifice  and  self-denials. 

I  take  no  joy  in  you,  new  house; 

You  make  my  days  more  lonely  and  bring  up 

The  thought  of  how  she  closed  her  weary  life, 

Not  with  delights  and  comforts  here, 

But  with  the  silence  of  mysterious  death. 


-»^  *«   •f^-f  ■ 


liady  of  the  Golden  State. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  205 

There  are  more  pleasant  places,  and  to  others 
I  will  leave  the  task  of  waking  up  your  corridors 
While  I  repine  beneath  our  spreading  elm 
(By  which  her  youthful  days  were  bright) 
And  meditate  upon  the  promised  glorious  home, 
Built  by  more  generous  hands  than  you, 
And  where  she  waits  for  me  among  the  scenes 
Where  mysteries  are  all  revealed,  and  sacrifice 
Not  unevenly  distributed  on  gentle  shoulders. 
Farewell,  new  house,  I  can't  forsake  old  friends 
For  you,  and  will  not  hate  you  when 
Your  walls  are  hidden  from  my  sight; 
So,  as  I  go  where  she  fell  asleep,  new  house,  good 
night. 


206  BABYLON 


LADY  OR  GENTLEMAN. 

The  lady  is  the  one  who  has  no  envy  or  false  pride; 
Who  always  wears  a  kindly  face  whatever  may  be- 
tide. 
The  lady's  one  who  needs  not  death  her  sympathies 
to  stir 
"To  do  to  others  as  she  would  that  they  should  do  to 
"her." 

The  gentleman's  the  man  who  cares  for  what  he  says 

or  does 
To  other  people's  feelings,  as  through  the  world  he 

goes. 
The  gentleman's  the  man  who  can  the  Lord's  com- 
mandments keep, 
"Rejoice  with  those  who  do    rejoice    and    weep  with 
"those  who  weep." 

A  lady  or  a  gentleman  is  one  whose  heart  can  move 
In  sympathy  for  those  around,  with  God's  unselfish 

love. 
No  matter  how  a  man  may  look  or  what  a  woman 

wear, 
Their  life  is  hollow  as  a  drum  unless  God's  love  is 
there. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  207 


MY  OLD  UIOLIN. 

(A  Song.) 
Dbdicatkd  to  my  Feiend  R.  S.  Yeomans. 

Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  violin, 
To  love  thee,  old  friend,  is  surely  no  sin; 
For  we've  grown  old  together  mid  struggle  and  strife, 
And  together  we've  met  all  the  changes  of  life. 
Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  violin, 
Why  shouldn't  I  love  my  old  violin? 

Can  I  ever  forget  how  you  served  in  the  past. 
While  memory  lives  and  my  old  life  shall  last? 
How  you  frightened  the  ravenous  wolf  from  the  door. 
And  saved  my  dear  wife  and  our  sweet  children  four? 
Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  violin, 
Why  shouldn't  I  love  my  old  violin? 

They  are  gone  where  the  viols  of  heaven  resound, 
But  the  sound  of    your   voice  makes  my    old    pulses 

bound. 
While  these  trembling  lips  can  so  hardly  repeat 
The  story,  your  voice  grows  forever  more  sweet. 
Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  vioHn, 
Why  shouldn't  I  love  my  old  violin? 

The  days  of  my  youth  are  all  vanished  and  gone 
If  it  were  not  for  you  I  should  be  all  alone 
Then  I'll  love  thee,  my  friend,  whatever  they  say. 
So  long  as  we're  kept  from  our  dear  ones  away. 
Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  violin. 
Why  shouldn't  I  love  my  old  violin? 


208  BABYLON 

Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  violin, 

How  oft'  through  the  gloom  their  loved  forms  IVe 
seen, 

When  you  poured  out  your  soul,  a  balm  to  my  heart; 

Oh,  my  old  violin,  we  never  shall  part. 

Oh,  my  old  violin,  my  old  violin, 
Why  shouldn't  I  love  my  old  violin? 


On  Santa  Catalina  Island. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  209 


MISS  WISDOM. 

Miss  Wisdom  is  a  merry  lass; 
When  she  peeps  in  her  looking  glass 
She  sees  a  face,  which,  though  not  fair 
Of  wholesomeness  has  quite  its  share. 
She's  neither  handsome,  neither  plain, 
But  of  her  looks  cannot  complain. 
Her  eyes  are  bright,  complexion  e"ood, 
And  though  she  rather  smaller  would 
Prefer  her  nose,  the  smile  beneath 
Shows  glistening  rows  of  pearly  teeth. 
She'll  in  her  charms  of  form  and  face 
Among  her  sisters  hold  her  place. 

But  'tis  not  in  mere  charms  of  face 
That  I  would  sing  Miss  Wisdom's  praise, 
But  of  the  things  that  she  can  do 
That  I  would  stop  and  write  to  you: 
It  will  not  cause  you  much  surprise 
That  she  when  scrubbing  never  cries. 
Does  not  object  to  dishes  wash. 
Or  making  bread,  or  serving  hash. 
But  when  I  try  to  tell  you  how 
She'll  mend  a  harness,  fix  a  plow. 
Or  ride  a  colt  or  milk  a  cow, 
Has  shod  a  horse  herself  alone, 
Can  hitch  and  drive  a  team  to  town, 
You'll  own  that  she's  resourceful  quite, 
And  able  her  own  way  to  fight. 

Miss  Wisdom  is  a  woman,  though, 
With  all  her  conquests  masculine. 
And  she  can  handle  grill  and  dough 


BABYLON 

And  ply  the  needle  deft  and  fine. 

The  things  that  she  can  make  and  cut 

A  catalogue  I'd  give  you,  but 

If  I  should  tell  you  all  she  knows 

Of  cunning  things  a  woman  does, 

With  half  an  eye  you'd  surely  see 

That  she  was  just  the  girl  for  me, 

And  think  that  she  my  heart  had  caught. 

With  all  the  winning  arts  she  wrought, 

And  made  of  me  a  lover  true. 

By  subtle  passion  forced  to  woo; 

But  no,  Miss  Wisdom  only  crossed 

My  path,  and  then  in  past  was  lost, 

But  in  my  memory  linger  now 

The  things  of  which  I  write  to  you. 

I  speak  of  gifts  which  I  admire, 

And  not  of  passion's  thralling  fire; 

And  memories  of  those  remain. 

Though  her  I  never  see  again. 

I  leave  Miss  Wisdom,  now,  with  you, 

For  I  have  told  her  story  through. 

If  I  again  should  speak  of  this 

Remind  me  gently  to  desist. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  211 


THE  WIRE'S  WAIL. 

Wand'ring 

All  'lone; 

Stars  shone. 
No  sound 
Around 

Save  sighing  wind. 

But  hark! 

Breaks  in 

A  din. 
Humans? 
Demons? 

Unearthly  revelry. 

That  strain, 

How  drear; 

Not  near. 
It  moans 
Across  the  plain. 

Some  one 

Talks  low 

They  go 
Close  by; 
Oh  fly! 

This  vigil  done! 

A  voice! 

'Tis  not! 

Then  what? 
The  wind; 
It's  trend 

Thankful  'tis  so. 


212  BABYLON 


That  yell 

That  moan — 

That  groan; 
Such  cries — 
Such  sighs; 

They  come  from  hell. 

On,  on! 

More  low 

They  flow, 
The  strain 
Will  wane 

Hush!  they  are  gone. 

Soft  strains 

'Ol'yan 

They  fan. 
Which  trill 
And  thrill 

The  soul  with  awe. 

Again 

They  roll; 

A  pole 
To  sky 
Points  high; 

It  trembling  stands. 

'Tis  plain: 

Me  sees 

The  breeze 
Grows  higher 
The  wire 

Sings  symphonies. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  213 


BED  TIME. 


Sister  says  its  Meepy  time, 
Mamma  says  its  bed  time, 
Papa  says  it's  whiney  time, 
But  I  can't  see  why; 
I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed; 
I  had  rather  'tay  up  late; 
I  don't  like  to  sit  up  'traight, 
'Cause  it  makes  me  cry. 

I  ain't  'leepy,  not  a  bit. 

I  had  rather  'tay  up  yet. 

Jus'  like  big  folks,  every  night — 

Talk  and  read  the  papers,  too; 

Then,  may  be,  before  I  go 

Hunt  up  sumpin'  good  to  eat, 

Or  some  one  would  bring  me  sweets, 

Just  the  same  as  sister  Sue. 

Curl  up  here  upon  the  lounge, 
Just  to  hear  what  people  say. 
No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  play; 
I  have  been  at  play  all  day, 
Why  I'm  keeqin'  quite  so  'till? 
'Cause  I'm  thinkin'  awful  hard; 
So  please  wont  you  go  away? 

No,  I  wasn't  sound  a'leep; 

Had  my  eyes  a  little  s'ut 

Guess  you'd  s'ut  your  eyes  up  tight, 

'F  you'd  kept  lookin'  at  the  light 

Never  saw  the  sand  man  come; 

Only  got  'ticks  in  my  eyes. 


214  BABYLON 

Got  to  go  along  to  bed? 
Mamma,  Papa,  all,  good  night. 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  'leep, 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord, 

My  soul  to  keep; 

If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord, 

My  soul  to  take. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  21$ 


THE  TYPEWRITER  GIRL. 

(A  Song.) 

Sung  the  past  of  bonnie  milkmaid, 

And  of  maiden  raking  hay, 
With  their  saucy  ringlets  flying, 

While  on  cheeks  the  dimples  play, 
But  the  present  has  a  darling 
As  bewitching,  every  whit, 
And  before  the  swift  typewriter 
She,  the  reigning  queen,  must  sit. 
Oh,  the  pretty,  sweet  typewriter. 
With  her  quiet  business  ways. 
How  she  stirs  the  world  around  her 
In  these  rushing  latter  days. 

Do  but  see  her.  as  she  swiftly 

Glides  along  the  busy  street. 
In  her  mind  mother  and  sister. 

Naught  but  business  in  her  feet. 
Like  a  gleam  of  springtime  sunshine 

Flits  she  through  the  office  door. 
Softening  all  the  grim  surroundings 

As  they  never  were  before. 

See  her  waxen  fingers  patter 

O'er  the  keys  like  dartingr  birds. 
While  the  flashing  types  are  spelling 

Out  the  swiftly  flying  words. 
And  the  brown  eyes  keenly  peering, 

Neath  the  thatch  of  sable  curls. 
Picture  of  industry  witching. 

Oh,  those  sweet  typewriter  girls. 


2l6  BABYLON 

Willingly  she  takes  the  burden, 

Bravely  meets  the  frowning  care. 
To  provide  for  widowed  mother, 

With  a  courage  rich  and  rare. 
Proud  to  labor  for  the  loved  ones^ 

Who  a  father's  care  have  lost. 
Yes,  we'll  sing  of  our  typewriter, 

She's  the  fairest  and  the  best. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  2l^ 


THE  FLOWER   BUBS. 

The  hammock  swung  in  the  evening  breeze, 

While  the  summer  sky  hung  low, 
And  the  wind  harp  played  in  the  evergreens 

In  drousy  cadence  slow. 
Reclining  listless,  Rachel  slept, 

Till  the  night  awoke  the  stars, 
And  the  dews  crept  out  on  nature's  cheeks, 

While  his  song  the  cricket  jars. 

The  maiden  slept,  and  her  drooping  lids 

Robed  soft  her  azure  eyes, 
And  her  flowing  wealth  of  brown,  brown  hair 

O'er  the  hammock  pillow  lies. 
Her  arm  of  ivory  underneath 

Her  cheek  of  peachy  down. 
While  across  her  wine-red  trembling  lip 

Her  gentle  breath  is  blown. 

While  Rachel  sleeps  the  flower  bubs  come, 

And  gather  round  her  there. 
To  choose  the  colors  they  will  paint 

On  fruit  and  flowers  so  fair; 
A  work  so  deft  and  delicate 

They  find  they  can't  decide, 
Until  in  the  hammock  slumbering 

Our  Rachel  they  have  spied. 

Then  whispering  they  gather  round 

By  Rachel's  resting  place, 
And  gaze  with  rapturous  delight 

On  the  colors  of  her  face. 


2l8  BABYLON 

When  they  have  gazed,  and  gazed  their  fill, 

At  cheek  and  brow  and  lip, 
And  e'en  beneath  the  eyelids  soft, 

They  down  from  the  hammock  slip. 

"We've  found  the  color  for  the  rose, 

"The  peach  and  the  apple  flower," 
(They  shout,  as  they  gather  down  below) 

"And  need  to  seek  no  more. 
"The  lily  we'll  paint  like  Rachel's  brow, 

"The  violet  (like  her  eye 
"And  the  soft,  kind-eyed  forget-me-not) 

"As  blue  as  the  summer  sky. 
"The  rose  of  June  and  the  apple  ripe, 

"And  autumn's  luscious  peach, 
"The  blush  of  the  slumbering  maiden's  cheek 

"Suggests  a  tint  for  each. 
"The  plum,  and  the  berries  hid  away, 

"Which  peep  from  their  summer  bed, 
"We'll  paint  like  Rachel's  trembling  lips, 

"With  brushes  pink  and  red." 

Then  the  maiden  stirred,  and  the  hammock  swayed. 

And  the  flower  bubs  slipped  away 
To  their  studios  and  pots  of  paint, 

To  mix  their  colors  gay; 
And  while  they  toiled  among  the  flowers, 

And  berries  and  apple  trees, 
Our  Rachel  never  knew  that  she 

Suggested  the  tints  for  these. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS.  219 


WHERE  THE  MONEY  GOES. 

The  finance  question,  certainly's  a  most  engrossing 

one. 
For  surely  without  finances  there  nothing  could  be 

done. 
Without  the  necessary  funds  how  can  things  move 

along? 
That  people  haven't  got  enough  is  surely  very  wrong. 

They  say  there  isn't  money  now  to  do  the  business 

on, 
And  I  am  sure,  without  a  doubt,  that  that  is  true  for 

one. 
For  now  a  month  or  more  have  I  been  longing  for 

some  cash 
To  buy  a   sparkling  diamond   pin  to   fasten   up   my 

sash. 

And  I  have  learned,  to-day,  for  sure  where  all  the 

money  goes, 
But  why  it  never  comes  again  is  something  no  one 

knows. 
Of  course   I   cannot  bring  it  back,   I    only  know   at 

most 
The  money  that  we  need,  and  cannot  have,  is  lost. 

I  never  knew  before  to-day,  when  out  for  knowledge 

bent, 
And  following  a  simple  clew,  where  all  the  money 

went; 
But  now  it  is  the  plainest  thing,  and  troubles  me  no 

more; 
I  only  wonder  when  I  think  I  never  knew  before. 


220  BABYLON 

I  met  the  landlord  of  the  inn  who  keeps  the  butcher 

shop 
And  entertains  at  his  hotel  so  many  guests  who  stop. 
At  my  salute  of  "How  de  do?  How's  everything  to- 
-day?" 
"I'm  losing  money  right. along,"  he  answered  mourn- 
fully. 

I   saw  the   shoemaker,  he   said,    "I'm  losing  money 

"fast," 
As  from  a  shoe  with  vicious  jerk  he  pulled  a  fractious 

last. 
The  baker  man  I  found  as  well  was  losing  money, 

too, 
In  spite  of  all  the  plans  he  made  and  all  that  he  could 

do. 

The  drayman  and  the  farmer  and  the  carpenter  as 

well — 
The  blacksmith  and  the  merchant,  all  the  same  sad 

story  tell — 
How  they're  losing    money    every    day,  in  spite  of 

everything. 
In  the  summer  and  the  autumn  and  the  winter  and 

the  spring. 

And  so  you  see,  it's  plain  to  me  where  all  the  money 

goes; 
It's  lost,  is  why  that  it's  so  scarce,  now  everybody 

knows. 
The  only  wonder  in  it  all,  no  money's  ever  found, 
While    so    many    men    and    women  are    losing    all 

around. 
And  finding  the  lost  money  it  is  time  we  had  begun. 
Then  there  would  be  a  plenty  to  do  the  business  on. 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


MY   PATRONS. 

My  patrons  were  not  kings  and  queens; 

I  was  unheeded  by  the  rich, 

They  stopped  not  for  my  humble  plea; 

And  if  I  found  a  place  at  all, 

It  was  in  warm  and  lowly  hearts. 

A  foundling  at  the  door  of  hearts, 

The  humble  kindly  took  me  in; 

The  proud  rejected  and  despised; 

They  sought  a  child  of  nobler  birth, 

On  whom  their  favors  to  bestow. 

The  poor,  their  humble  hearths  and  hearts 

Divided  with  the  stranger  child. 

And  trusted  that  the  source  from  which 

They  drew  upon  for  their  supply, 

Would  not  grow  less  than  their  demands; 

And  but  for  their  responsive  hearts 

I  should  in  solitude  have  died. 

While  humbly  crying  at  their  doors. 

May  Heaven  bless  the  hearts  that  beat 

In  sympathy  not  fixed  by  pelf. 


0:^^^^ 


yC158500 


